


The Guilded Age

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: The Adventures of the Avengers Initiative [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Gen, Loads and Loads of Characters - Freeform, Steam Punk AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 78,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p>An alternate universe, steam-punk inspired, Victorian retelling of the Avengers movie. Featuring all those you know and love, plus a couple surprises.</p><p>*<br/><i><b>Part the First</b></i></p><p> <i>Seeking Extraordinary Men For Dangerous Work. Fair wages offered. Permanent situation. No layabouts or Irish need apply. Military background preferred. Inquire in person, Victoria Tower, London.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Hawk Hunts the Spider

**Author's Note:**

> This is the kind of bizarre thing that happens when my writing partner and I get bored. We had a ton of fun writing this, hope you enjoy.
> 
> This fic is unbetaed, edited only by us, so apologies for any errors.

_London England - October, 1888_  


The city was coated in smoke and coal dust.

Natasha had very dim memories of her childhood Before. Just vague snippets of sights and sounds and smells. She’d been very small when they took her and sent her family away. But she remembered the clean air, and the green. She really hoped someday they’d send her someplace like that. 

London was like every other industrial city, filthy and packed with desperation and grinding poverty under a layer of oblivious, ostentatious wealth. Aristocracy was the same the world over. The English Prince she had been sent to assassinate was a wonderful example of the species. A fat, high-living, wasteful womanizer. Even his own mother couldn’t stand him. Which Natasha supposed was a good thing. She’d only seen the queen from the distance of a courtier, but she rather liked the Queen— and she didn’t respect all that many woman.

Natasha had been sent from Russia by the Okhrana, the Tsar’s secret police, to install herself in the household of the Russian princess who’d married Queen Victoria’s second son. Her target was the eldest son, the Prince of Wales. She wasn’t entirely sure the motivation, but she’d long ago stopped looking for a why. She just did as ordered.

She’d been doing it so long, she didn’t ask herself why, anymore, either.

The Prince had noticed her. It hadn’t taken long, and it wouldn’t be hard.

*

The pounding on his door was not going to stop. 

Clint knew who was on the other side— more or less because of the ceaseless pounding— and knew he ought to get up, lest his door be kicked in. With a groan he dragged himself out of bed and staggered over to it. He yanked it open and his boss marched right in.

“Jesus, Barton, it’s eleven in the morning. How are you still asleep?”

He had one of those long, ridiculous British names and an even more ridiculous British title with a bunch of knighthood-related letters at the end. Clint hadn’t bothered to memorize it, because everyone in Shield, their shadowy semi-governmental organization, just called him Fury. It was frequently apt. The man had lost an eye in the Crimean war in an incident that had grown such epic proportions that Clint expected Henry V to show up in the next telling. “I just got home an hour ago,” he added. Not that Fury would listen or care.

“I’m changing your assignment. We’ve got something more important.”

“I think I’m pretty close to catching this guy, boss.” That was sort of true. His prey, a delightful local murderer with a penchant for vivisection, was as slippery as an eel. But he was closer than when he’d gotten off the ship concluding his long journey from San Francisco, so it wasn’t technically untrue.

“This is more important. And you’ll get back to it. A few more dead prostitutes isn’t the end of the world.” Fury was pacing around his flat, picking up things and putting them down.

“Don’t touch the arrowheads. And didn’t you, just yesterday, go on at length about the bad press and public panic and the prime minister calling you to his office?”

“We will have a much more catastrophically enormous problem if this new issue is not addressed. It’s on an international scale.” He turned, folding his arms over his chest. “Have you ever heard of the Black Widow?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Of course I have. She's a myth. Russian folk tale to scare the horny men from making too many enemies."

"False. She is a real person, and she is here. We have never been able to pin her down. Our intel indicates she's here to assassinate the Prime Minister himself."

Clint raised both eyebrows. "And you think this is. . .good intel?" The Prime Minister, for all his tendency to yell at Fury, was a rather straight-laced—not to mention elderly—man who had not a whiff of any sort of reputation. 

"The sources are reliable. The princess brought in a new batch of Russian women to be her attendants. One of them is our girl. You're going to find her before she does whatever it is she's here to do."

He sighed. At least she would be interesting prey. "Prisoner, body, or unexplained disappearance?"

"Body. Certain parties want proof of demise and she's too dangerous to take alive."

"Got it. Can I sleep now?"

"This is urgent."

"If you want me to actually hit her, I need more than 45 minutes of sleep. Also, I'd bet she's as nocturnal as a bat."

Fury scowled in the way only a man who knows he's lost the argument can. "Fine. But you better have a real good night tonight."

He really wanted Fury to get out. His head was pounding and he had a lot of planning to do. The man was all sound and drama, he had no idea how delicate an assassination, especially against a fellow pro, could be. "I will have dealt with her by morning. On my honor as a Texan."

The other man tried to stare him down, then shook his head, walking towards the door. "I look forward to your report."

*

Someone was stalking her. 

Natasha hadn't seen him yet. He was entirely too good for that, it seemed. But she knew when she was being watched. She'd spent the morning listening to Princess Maria Alexandrovna complain about how much she hated England and every last one of her in-laws. Going on about how much she missed Mother Russia. Natasha had nodded regularly—but honestly, it was already snowing back home. At least here it was sort of comfortable. Now she'd been sent on an errand better suited to a maid, and she was being followed. She hadn’t meant to be out after dusk, but the Princess’s milliner was very slow.

She scanned the street ahead of her. No useful hostages. Alley on the right ends in the back of a building. Cross street had too much traffic. Ah, there we are, another alley. That should empty out into the mews. Maybe she could lose him there. She gathered up her skirt and ducked down the alley, dropping into a sprint when she was off the street.

There was a sound above her. A scrape, a thump. She just caught it. He was on the roofs above her, but she couldn't see him. She squinted up at the roofline. That would make it more difficult to lose him. She reached the mews and found them more deserted then she'd hoped. Everyone, even the servants, were eating dinner. She took the opportunity to hike up her skirt and retrieve the gun and knife she had hidden.

Escape was looking less like an option. She hadn't been in a proper fight in ages. This might even be fun. There was still silence above her. She ducked into the stable itself, and waited for what felt like an eternity. She knew he was up there, on the stable roof, but he hadn't moved.

Oh, she really didn't want to spend all bloody night here. She watched the roof, listening intently. She didn't even have to kill him, just wing him enough to get away. All he had to do was make a sound. She waited. And waited. Only instinct told her he hadn't left. In desperation, she chose what seemed the least accessible stable door, and crept into it carefully. She stayed as covered as she could, just to try and get a look.

She heard the sound of air whistling, and she ducked back just something hit her in the side. It hit her corset, caught the whalebone—which probably saved her life—and fell into her skirts. She looked down at it. It was an arrow.

She fished a small mirror from her bag and tilted it in the direction it had come from. There he was, on the roof of a building across the alley. Dressed all in black, aiming a large recurve bow at her.

Oh for— A bow? Pinned in a stable by a man with a bow and arrows. Christ, she did _not_ want to spend a night in this barn. "I don't suppose you're open to negotiation?" she called out.

He didn't answer for so long she thought he wouldn't. Maybe he was mute. He was jumping around rooftops with a bow and arrow. Who knew how strange this was going to get. Then, finally, "Do you negotiate with your prey?"

The man had a point. He also had an American accent. Maybe that explained the bow. "My prey has plenty of chances to avoid death. It's hardly my fault they think with the wrong head."

"Hitting me with that pistol you have would be a nearly impossible challenge for a marksman, which you are not." 

"Well, I can sit and wait here a long time. I'm fairly certain whoever sent you wants you to actually accomplish something tonight. So you're gonna have to stick your neck out eventually."

"You need to meet more snipers, honey. You'd be better trying to play chicken with the Mona Lisa."

She sighed. God save her from intelligent men. "You don't know me well enough to call me honey," was all she said.

"I'm not addressing you as the Black Widow," he replied. 

Her thighs were starting to burn, and it was possible there was still a fight or flight ahead of her. So she lowered her ass to the straw-covered floor and offered, "Nat."

There was a long silence. "Clint," he said finally. "One of us is going to kill the other, so we might as well be introduced."

"It does seem polite," she agreed. "I generally know my prey's name." And just about everything else. "So why the bow?"

"Guns are loud." She heard a creak up there, and when she aimed the mirror he had crouched down at the roof’s edge. Still had the bowstring to his cheek, though. "It isn't the prime minister, is it?"

She laughed brightly. "Good God, no. The Prince."

"The universe makes sense again." He paused. "I'm astonished it's not already done. I got the impression he fucked everything that came into arm’s reach."

"Oh, catching his eye was quite simple. But I've a role to play with the princess. Time hasn't been right." She glanced up as if he could see her. "Didn't know I had someone on my tail."

"I'm flattered to be noticed at all. It's quite rare. Nobody ever looks up."

"I've been doing this a long time. The roofs threw me, though. I can see why they sent you."

"Well," he said, with not an ounce of smugness or ego, "I'm the best."

It was probably best not to taunt the man holding her at arrow point. But some things could not stand. "In London, maybe."

"Have you ever taken out anyone who could fight back?"

She made a little offended noise. "Of course. You don't have to be a marksman to be a good fighter."

"Seemed a fair question. Your MO is more honey than vinegar. I'm pretty sure a man like the Prince of Wales, for example, could be done in by a bar maid with strong ale, big tits, and a ball peen hammer. Yet they send you. Seems a waste."

"Flattery is appreciated, _moi pitchka_ , but will not get me to stick my neck out. I never ask why they send me. I was just grateful to get out of the snow for a while."

"Just makin' conversation. Head games are your department, not mine." There was a stretch of silence, but she could almost hear him thinking. "I always ask why. I try to only kill people that need killing. What _do_ they pay you?"

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Pay? I get the privilege of living another day."

The silence was longer this time. Then she heard another thump, on the cobblestones outside. She looked in the mirror, and he was standing out there. He had the bow slung across his body, and a knife in his teeth. He transferred it to his hand, and stood very still, poised like a cat. She tilted her head. He was rather good looking. And that was not a compliment she gave men lightly.

She tucked the mirror away and got her feet underneath her, standing very slowly. She left the gun on the ground but brought her knife with her, and stepped out of the stall where he could see her.

She could probably have shot him from his distance, and he had to know that. What a strange act of trust. "Nobody should live like that," he said.

Sympathy. She had not expected that from a fellow killer. But apparently in London things were different. She tilted her head again. "It's the way it's been for almost as long as I remember. I had a family, once, but they were taken away."

He nodded. "Mine were killed. By the people that took me. They taught me to hunt, and when I was big enough I hunted them. Slavery ain’t exactly in my nature."

She flashed a grin. "I would love to kill them, but there are too many. One falls another would take his place, probably worse then the last." She shrugged. This was a strange conversation to be having with a man sent to kill her. "I have nowhere else to go."

He flipped his knife up in the air and caught it. He did it absently, but was a remarkable feat of dexterity and perception. He'd be fun to fight with, she bet. "I've been tracking a man, but he's been remarkably elusive. The Whitechapel murders. The press is calling him Jack the Ripper. He's been killing and mutilating women in the East End. Was doing that when they pulled me off to deal with you."

"I've seen the reports. Precision work. Pity he's insane."

"How would you catch him?"

Another flip of the knife. She watched it turn in the air, considering. "He hunts the prostitutes there. I would dress as one of them. Ask the girls if they had seen anyone those nights. Most wouldn't recall or would only have gossip. But a few would be old enough to have an instinct for such a man. They’d talk to me in a way they’d never talk to male officials. I would be able to piece together what he looked like and what appealed to him in the others. Then I would be sure to find myself alone as often as possible and act however it is he wanted his women to act. He would find me."

"That's incredibly dangerous. He slices his victims all to hell."

Her mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "A man like that thinks he's better than women. He's secure in being bigger and stronger. Smarter than the whores. That makes him weak. He'd expect me to follow along like a good girl, to cower at his knife. He'd never see the one I carried until it was in his gut."

He seemed to consider that. Then he nodded. "Sounds good."

Now it was a proper smile. "I don't know that it would work for you."

He caught the knife, and looked at her askance. "I'm offering you a job."

She almost laughed, but he looked at her again and she saw he was serious. "What will your employers think of that?"

"Let me handle them. We're always looking for new talent."

"And you trust me not to kill you when your back is turned?"

He tossed the knife back over his head, and it embedded in the building wall behind him. In what looked like the same motion, he swung the bow around, conjured an arrow seemingly from thin air, and shot behind him without looking. It embedded in the handle of the knife. "I have eyes in the back of my head," he said.

That had been surprisingly arousing. And that hardly ever happened anymore. She cleared her throat. "Good to know." She bent and dropped her own knife into the sheath in her boot. "To Whitechapel then?"

He laughed. "Not in that dress, honey."


	2. The Chemist, the Monster, and the Man in the Iron Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments! We're glad people are giving this story a try and are enjoying it. There is a lot more to come!

_Bombay, British India - July, 1889_

Rain came down in sheets, like a great spigot pouring from the sky. Natasha had never seen weather like that. It was like a blizzard of water. You probably couldn't see your hand in front of your face if you went outside.

"It's called a monsoon," Coulson said helpfully, joining her at the window to watch it. "I was in India for a while with the army. You. . .don't get used to it. But it does stop eventually." It wasn't often he commented on his past. She and Clint loved to compare scars and swap war stories, which had provided entertainment on the long trip around the world. Coulson didn't share. When she'd met the very buttoned up and proper Brit—spats, starched collar, somber hat—she'd expected their expedition was acquiring itself a clerk who would be a liability in any sort of trouble.

Two weeks in transit and close quarters hadn't taught her anything more useful about him, other than him being the only person she'd ever met who came across as both an earnest bureaucrat, and a man you would never, ever want to meet in a dark alley.

"Warm rain is just unnatural," she said, stepping away from the window. "And won't make finding our prey any easier."

"I'll find him," Clint said from behind them. He'd taken over the dining room table to make arrows. Right now he had what looked like an entire flock of birds worth of feathers on it. 

"Apparently he can track a falcon on a cloudy day," Coulson said, in a tone of voice she'd come to learn was him repeating some sort of private joke. Sure enough, Clint rolled his eyes.

Nat joined him at the table, watching him fletch. She picked up one of the feathers and blew on it. "Next time I have a craving for fowl I will be sure to keep you in mind."

"If he turns into the green thing we won't be able to miss him," Clint commented. 

"I'm not sure the green thing speaks English," Coulson replied. He adjusted his cuffs. Nat desperately wanted to know how they were staying so well starched despite the fact that it was so humid you could feel the air.

"That will make negotiation difficult." She twirled her feather between her fingers. "I hate sitting idly."

They were in India in search of a Shield chemist who had gone missing after an accident in his lab. That was the way Coulson had put it. After they were on the steamship out of London, Clint had mentioned that the accident had caused the man to occasionally turn into some sort of giant green monster. Shield’s world, she had learned, was very strange. "We could try luring him to us," Clint said. "Like Jack the Ripper."

Oh, that would be entertaining. She turned to look at Coulson. "Do you know if he had an eye for women?"

The man looked vaguely uncomfortable at the idea. "Most reports of him I saw said he was married to his work. There was a fiancee, but she grew tired of his constant distraction."

"Hmm." She glanced back at Clint. "I can't catch a man who doesn't look."

"There are other forms of bait."

"Oh! Does he like men?" He and Coulson made the same unpleasant face. Nat rolled her eyes. While working with Shield was far more pleasant than her previous employment, she was, at times, stunned at how very repressed they all were. Her Russian employers might not have sanctioned same-sex relations. But at least they acknowledged they existed. "What is his weakness, then?"

"Well," Coulson said slowly. "Fury wanted him to build indestructible soldiers. But he made a lot of notes about other applications—particularly rejuvenating stunted and malnourished children, curing rickets, that sort of thing." 

"So children," Clint said. He sighed. "More specifically, _sick_ children."

The thought of using the man's kindness gave Nat a sour taste in her mouth. "No shortage of those here," she murmured. "And no reason we can't help them in the process. Some coin and food at the least."

"Little bit goes a long way here," Coulson said. "Let's do it."

*

Clint crouched on the roof the shack they were "borrowing" for their trap. Renting was probably a better word. He imagined the family who lived there would eat for the rest of the month on the coins Coulson had handed them. Not to mention the basket of fruit Nat had insisted they bring and hand out to the locals who had helped them track down their soft-hearted scientist. She had said, with some degree of authority, that nothing tasted as good as fresh food when you were poor.

Now he watched her through a hole in the roof while she sat in a very particular spot in the shack. They had carefully mapped out the area she would need to keep herself and their soon-to-be-new-friend so that Clint would have a clear shot. She sat still as a statue, barely breathing, prepping for what she needed to do.

From the corner of his eye Clint saw the little girl they'd sent off come running down the street, a man dressed in black following her at a quick clip. He let out a low whistle to warn Nat and she gave the slightest nod to show she'd heard.

He watched the little girl run beneath the hole, past Nat, and right back out the back window. Then the man stopped, right beneath him, just where he should. He could hear Nat talking, though not exactly what she was saying. It was her calm, reassuring tone. "Everything is fine," that tone said. "You want to agree with me, because everything is fine."

The chemist was trying to wander, to pace, but Nat was doing a good job herding him where she needed him. Tempers looked to be rising a little. Clint hoped he didn't have to go down there. He hoped they didn't get to meet the monster. 

He didn't like how that thought made him tense, and his heart-rate raise. He was so familiar with facing his own death that he was pretty sure he could stare into the barrel of a machine gun without feeling nervous.

But her. . . her he worried for. 

"Don't lie to me!" the chemist roared. He took half a step towards Nat. She didn't seem to move at all but suddenly her knife was in her hand and at the big man's neck. Time froze for a moment and Clint was pretty sure his heart actually stopped.

Then the man raised his hands and actually chuckled, standing down without even a flicker of green. Nat twirled the knife and gave the "all clear" whistle as she put it away.

A minute later, Nat came into sight directly beneath the hole. She smiled and waved up to him. The chemist came to stand next to her and look as well. "You have got to be Clint Barton," he called up.

Clint lowered the bow and smiled. "Hello, Dr. Banner."

*

_New York City - April, 1890_

"That's one person's house?"

The mansion stretched an entire city block, decorated with every possible bit of trim and embellishment. As if it was trying to out-ostentatious both Versailles and the St. Petersburg Winter Palace. Nat shook her head. Americans.

Coulson was flipping through his papers. "It says he has a family. Children."

"How many?" she muttered under her breath. Coulson handed her the papers so she could look herself. Many, as it turned out.

They walked up the front steps and rang the bell. Nat could hear it echoing in the house. After a few long moments in which she plotted three separate ways to break in, the door was opened by a thin blonde man in a formal suit. "May I help you?"

"We're here to see Mr. Stark," Coulson said.

For a moment she thought perhaps he wouldn't let them in, he studied them so long. She'd worn a highly fashionable and highly respectable dress, with a collar practically to her ears and covered in lace. It was hideous, but it made her look like a rich socialite making afternoon calls. They hadn't brought Clint with them. Stark wasn't considered a threat, and it was absolutely impossible to make Clint look like a rich respectable _anything_.

The butler seemed to find Coulson's ever-perfect suit acceptable, and he stepped back to allow them entrance. They were taken into a cavernous foyer that you could probably hold a ball or operate a farm in. The butler held out a silver tray and Coulson placed a calling card on it. He then disappeared through one of the room's many doors. 

The Stark family had been, until recently, one of country’s largest weapons manufacturers. They’d produced most of the artillery used in the Civil War, and had been happily arming Europe’s violent colonial expansion up until a few years ago. Then the current owner had been kidnapped while traveling in the Ottoman Empire. Coulson’s profile detailed how he’d built himself a metal exoskeleton to compensate for his badly broken legs, plated it with armor, and fought his way out. When he returned, he shut all of his factories down and got into railroads, steel, oil, electrical appliances and. . .automobiles. He was rich, she supposed he could afford to waste money on toys, too.

Coulson was looking at the elaborate mosaic on the floor. "This is very nice tile." He glanced up at her. "Have you ever seen Barton's house in San Francisco?"

She looked from the mosaic to him, moving very slowly. "He has a house in San Francisco?"

"Yes. Well, I suppose he could have sold it. But it has a mosaic like this in the foyer. Little hexagons. Always reminded me of the bottom of a pool." He stepped back a little. "Though I think this one might be a fractal."

Even if she hadn't been reeling at the idea of Clint actually owning a home, she was fairly certain fractals were out of her pay grade. In London he slept in a little flat in the semi-respectable part of town. It was little more then a bed and a place to keep clothes and weapons, much like her own living space. What on earth would he do with an entire house? How many rooms were full of arrows?

Another one of the big wooden doors opened. Instead of the butler, a little red-haired boy emerged. He was completely naked, and came sprinting out while cackling with glee. He stopped in front of them, crossed his arms, and grinned up at them triumphantly.

Nat really wasn't much for children. Hadn't really liked them when she was one and certainly didn't know what to do with them now. But there was something about that extremely proud-of-himself smile that made it impossible not to smile back. "Hello."

A rotund woman in a gray uniform came out of the same door, her face red with exertion. The little boy saw her and took off across the hall. The woman followed, paying them no mind. The boy used his weight to move the doorknob and open another door. The woman yelled, "Not the workshop!" as she disappeared after him.

She looked over at Coulson, who was clearly trying to suppress laughter. "It starts young."

The hall fell silent again. From somewhere deep in the house, there was the sound of a faint boom. She hoped that wasn't the little boy.

A giant staircase sat in the center of the hall, and now they could hear voices echoing from above it. The butler, it sounded like, and a different woman. "Well, if she's offended, she can leave. Mr. Stark doesn't wish to be disturbed but likely wouldn't wish to ignore representatives of the British government." The butler mumbled something, and the woman replied with, "I'm not in the mood for sensibilities, if I followed proper rules I'd spend half my life trapped in the house."

The skirt came into view first, bright pink and covered with flowers. It was the sort of housedress a society woman would never, ever receive visitors in, except this particular woman was clearly _very_ pregnant. Nat imagined it was all she had she could wear. 

She had red hair like the little boy, piled on top of her head. "Hello," she said with a smile. "I'm Mrs. Stark."

Nat grinned widely. Coulson seemed to be momentarily speechless so she stepped forward. "Natasha Romanova. This is Philip Coulson. I take it we will not be able to speak to your husband?"

"He's. . . it's generally better to make an appointment. But if you'd like to come have some tea, I can see if—" 

Before she could finish her sentence, the door the little boy had gone through opened, and a man emerged. He was so completely covered in soot Nat couldn't even tell what he was wearing, though he was definitely in his shirtsleeves. He was also carrying the naked toddler, who had become smeared in soot himself.

"We're going to need a new nanny," the man said to Mrs. Stark with a completely straight face.

Mrs. Stark sighed, and it was a very resigned, unsurprised noise. "We have guests." She pointed. "Also, he's peeing on you."

Coulson cleared his throat, and Nat chuckled. Whomever Mrs. Stark was, she wasn't British, and she sure as hell wasn't upper class.

Soot Man—who Nat could only assume was Mr. Stark—held the baby away from him and looked down in dismay. "Well, it's not the worst thing I've gotten on me." He put his son down and looked at Nat and Coulson. "Who are you?"

Behind her, she could hear Coulson's throat clearing again, but this time he managed to speak. "I'm Philip Coulson, this is Natasha Romanova. We're with Shield, and we'd like to speak to you about your armor."

The boy went sprinting across the hall to his mother, throwing himself at her skirt and leaving tiny black footprints on the fractal mural. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" Stark asked his wife.

"I am perfectly fine. How many times have I done this?"

He stopped, frowned, and Nat could see his fingers move as he counted silently. "Mr. Stark," Coulson said, trying to get his attention back.

He didn't look away from his wife. "Yeah, armor, I heard. It's not for sale. At least a chair?" 

She picked the baby up, and he patted her cheeks with his sooty hands. "I'm taking him upstairs for a bath since we don't have a nanny anymore. Be nice to our guests, and be clean by dinner."

"Yes, dear," he called, watching her intently as she carried the little boy upstairs. 

Coulson waited for him to turn back to them before speaking. "We don't want to buy it," he said. "We want you to use it. For us."

His eyes narrowed. "To help Her Majesty conquer somewhere new? _No_ thank you."

"We're not in the conquering business," Nat said. "We're in the protecting business."

"It's a whole new world out there, Mr. Stark," Coulson added. "You aren't the only one on the cutting edge."

He seemed to consider that. Then he nodded, and bellowed, "Jarvis! Come put these people in a parlor." Stark looked back at them. "Have some tea. I have to go change."

He wandered through another set of doors as the butler came down the stairs. Nat looked up at Coulson. "Well, that was a lot easier than Banner."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _The God of Thunder, and the Sailor in the Ice._


	3. The God of Thunder, and the Sailor in the Ice

_Westmoreland Countryside, England - June, 1891_

 

Clint had been having a strange week. A lot of things Shield dealt with were weird, granted, but a large hammer falling out of the sky and embedding itself in the ground in a large crater. . . That was special. 

They'd built a fort of sorts around it, and so he'd spent the better part of four days sitting up on a hill, watching the fort and the hammer from above. The highlight of the fourth day was when he saw Natasha arrive at the fort below. He didn't know why she was there, but generally found his day was always more enjoyable when she was around. He picked up the communications box Stark had built them. Clint couldn't understand how it worked, something about electromagnetic waves (which he also didn't understand). But it was like a telegraph, only with no wires at all. He tapped a morse code message down to Coulson. _Send her up_ **STOP**

There was no response, but about twenty minutes later he had the pleasure of watching her saunter up his hill carrying a basket he could only hope held supper. "How fares the hunt, _moi pitchka_?" she asked when she reached him.

"Nothing much to see." He looked up. "Is Coulson still thinking about cabling for Stark to see if he can move it?"

She nodded, slowly lowering herself to the ground and settling the basket next to him. "There's even talk of having Banner let the Other One out and try. He let me give it a go, but, alas, not even a wiggle."

"It must be something occult. That smells good," he said of the food that was clearly in the basket.

"It's roast chicken." She unpacked the bird, a fresh loaf of bread and a jug of wine. "Enjoy."

He made himself a plate. "Thank you. Very much." He looked up at her, and noticed a fading bruise near her hairline. He frowned and reached up to touch it. "Somebody put up a fight?"

She glanced up at his hand, but didn't pull away. "Oh, a little. Got through my defenses." She ripped off one of the drum sticks and nibbled on it. "Messed up my hair. He paid for it in full."

That made him smile. "Good," he said emphatically. 

Her smile matched his and he was momentarily distracted by her sucking grease off her thumb. He was fairly immune to her deliberate seduction. Could see right through her games. It was the moments when she forgot her persona and was her most un-self-conscious that struck him dumb.

"Clint," she said around a mouthful of chicken, and pointed over his shoulder. He turned to see a strange man with wild blond hair scaling the wall of the fort. Clint sighed, putting his dinner down and picking up his bow. He reached over to the box and tapped out. _South fence_ **STOP** _Kill or no_ **STOP**

_No kill_ **STOP** _Want to see what happens_ **STOP**

Nat crouched next to him, watching the big guy take down half their guards. "He's not trying to hurt them," she commented. "Just get them out of his way."

Clint watched him, aiming just in case. The guy was enormous, like some kind of reincarnated Viking. Men kept coming out, and the blond man kept knocking them aside. It was remarkably entertaining, and very impressive. "He'd make a fortune as a bare knuckle boxer." He pointed an elbow at the box. "Tell Coulson I'm starting to root for this guy."

He heard tapping as she did so, then a buzz a few moments later. "He says wait."

The Viking had made his way to the hammer and stopped. Clint could see the guy's grin all the way up on the hill. He bent, grabbed the handle of the weapon and pulled.

 And absolutely nothing happened.

Clint and Nat made noises of disappointment in unison. The man tried again, clearly pulling as hard as he could. Then he let go and fell to his knees in defeat. Guards rushed out, and he let himself be taken. Clint didn't lower the bow until the was out of sight. He turned and looked back at her. "What _is_ that thing?"

She shook her head and stood. "Maybe I can go find out."

"He does look like a man who likes a pretty girl."

"And that is my specialty." She gave a little curtsy. "I'll let you know what happens," she promised before making her way back down the hill.

What she got from the man didn't make a whole lot of sense. They spent an entire day sitting around the war room in the hastily erected fort, debating if the man was a Bedlam escapee or an actual exiled ancient Norse god. Someone who claimed to be a friend of his—who seemed to indicate "lunatic" was the debate winner—came looking for him. Coulson sent him off, and ordered Clint to follow him. He spent a couple of days watching the Viking—whose name was either Thor or Donald—romancing the local schoolteacher. He seemed pretty sane at that point.

Then, rapidly, he began to regret considering the immovable hammer weird. A giant metal monster appeared. It looked like an eight foot tall medieval knight, except that when it's faceplate lifted, all that was inside was flames. Which it then spit out like a dragon.

They did _not_ pay Clint enough to get off his roof for that. The Viking had an animated and angry conversation aimed directly at the sky, fought the monster, looked to have died. . . and then the hammer appeared out of nowhere, and the Viking—whom Clint was going to concede could be called Thor—leapt up, suddenly dressed like a Roman Legionnaire in leather pants. There was a red cape. He vanquished the great metal monster by summoning a lighting storm and a small tornado from thin air.

It wasn't every day you got to see an actual god in action. Particularly a god who promptly promised to come back and help when needed. Coulson decided to call that a successful recruitment. 

Clint contemplated how long he could get away with addressing him as Son of Coul before getting punched.

*

_Newport, Rhode Island - August, 1892_

 

A very cryptic telegram had arrived in London, from Stark. It was addressed to Coulson, with a request that he come see something immediately. "No Fury" was specified. They had a tendency to yell at each other. He stated that there were three first class tickets on a steamer the following day, and that Coulson was not to bring anyone who was loud.

Which is why Natasha and Clint were now sitting in a carriage rolling up a long crushed-shell drive to Stark's summer house. Which, if she were any estimator of size, was actually larger than his mansion on 5th Avenue.

"You know the telegram actually refers to this as his summer cottage," Coulson commented. 

Across from her Clint had his eyes closed. She didn't want to find it amusing someone that graceful and utterly immune to heights got motion sickness, but the irony was unavoidable. The ship, then train, then carriage had been enough, clearly. "I don't understand rich people," he muttered. "Are we there yet?"

The carriage lurched to a stop in the porte-cochère, and she patted his knee as a footman opened the door and handed her out. For a second she thought Clint might kiss the ground, but he kept himself in check and together they made their way up the steps to the door.

Jarvis let them in with only slightly less disdain then he had that very first time and, with the ominous pronouncement of, "He's in the basement," lead them through several doors to a set of narrow steps leading down. 

If Natasha didn't know Stark better she would be concerned this had all been a trap of some sort. The room the stairs let out into looked like a cross between a medical laboratory and a Torquemada dungeon. 

Stark was hunched over something, with a welder's mask on. He tipped it up when he noticed them. "Coulson. Barton. Natasha, you look as stunning as always."

"I try especially hard, just for you, Stark," she said. "Why the secrecy?"

"Telegrams charge by the word," he said, as if that was completely logical. He indicated the room. "We're underground because it's cooler down here in the summer. And the smell bothers Pepper in her current condition."

Good Lord. Nat was fond of Stark's wife but the woman bred like a rabbit. Wait. Smell?

"What smell?" Coulson asked from over her right shoulder.

"I'm trying to build the suit a battery so I can electrify it. I need to find a substance that will hold the charge without it weighing more than me. I can see your eyes glazing over and I haven't even got to the chemistry yet. Trust me, it smells. But that's not at all relevant."

From over her right shoulder Clint said, "Why did you bring us here?" in a tone of voice that indicated the wrong answer would get Stark an arrow in the eye, genius inventor or not.

He inclined his head, to indicate they should follow him—astonishingly, down another flight of stairs. "My grandfather was a blacksmith. And a gunsmith. He made cannons and shot for the brand new United States Navy at the turn of the last century—and for privateers and pirates and merchant ships needing protection. The War of 1812 was the beginning of the Stark fortune."

They were in a dark, dank hallway, and Stark was giving them a history lesson. Perhaps the battery making had poisoned him and made him delirious.

"When I was a little boy he'd sit me on his knee and tell me tales of a man they called Captain America. He stole a British ship-of-the-line and sailed it by himself right into Boston Harbor. He defeated anyone he came up against. Even Napoleon was afraid of him." He pulled open a heavy steel door. On the other side, it was _cold_. "He and his ship vanished in the north Atlantic in 1815. But the men who served with him said he was immortal." Stark pushed a button switch in the wall and a light bulb overhead came on. 

In front of them was a man, in Napoleonic era clothing, encased in a solid block of ice.

The three of them stood in a line, staring at the ice block. Nat was pretty sure she heard Coulson mutter a curse, which under any other circumstances would have been the most astonishing thing to happen to her in a day.

She stepped forward to peer at the ice man. "He's perfectly preserved."

"Whalers up in Maine found him," Stark said. "His ship was buried in arctic sea ice. None of the other bodies were like this. They hacked him out and brought him in. I came across him being displayed as part of a circus sideshow. They had him in a refrigerated car."

"Jesus." That was Coulson and that was a confirmed curse.

"Are we—are we going to thaw him out?" Clint asked.

Stark ticked the options off on his fingers. "Either he is immortal, and alive in there, in which case yes. Or he isn't, and is dead, in which case yes. The man was a war hero, he deserves a proper burial."

Nat glanced back at Coulson, who swallowed visibly, then nodded. She turned back to Stark. He was grinning a little, in that way he had when there was a new challenge present. "I guess first is to get him out of this room?" she suggested.

It became obvious very quickly that, given that it was 94 degrees out, outside was where Ice Man should go—at least until the big block of ice melted. Stark had to put his suit on to get it out of there, since that was how he'd gotten it down to his basement in the first place. Mrs. Stark expressed concern about the sun on the Captain’s face, and so they'd stuck a large parasol on a stake to provide shade.

And so began the strangest garden party Nat had ever attended, all of them sitting around this melting block of ice, drinking iced tea and eating dainty finger foods. The Stark children were running around the lawn, or down at the beach. Stark himself was in a seersucker suit, lounging in a chair, reading a newspaper. Coulson was sitting at one of the tables, looking worried and writing something with great intensity. Across from her, Mrs. Stark was watching the children on the lawn and rocking a small, dark haired girl with her thumb in her mouth. 

She had on a delicate, white linen dress that looked extremely cool. Nat longed for one; she had not dressed for his kind of heat. She did not do well with heat.

Clint was sprawled in the chair next to her, having long lost his jacket and waistcoat, and his sleeves were rolled all the way up to his biceps. He didn't look like he was doing well with heat, either. "This is worse than Texas," he said, as though he could read her mind.

"If that's true I'm never going to Texas," she informed him. She studied him another moment, the lean, sinewy muscles revealed by his rolled up sleeves. "You've never looked more cowboy," she informed him. He’d been an actual cowboy for a while when he was younger.

He tipped up the hat covering his face so he could see her. "I am far too clean at the moment."

She arched a very deliberate brow, arranging her face into an expression that made his words a double entendre even if he hadn’t meant them that way. "Definitely never going to Texas."

"Cattle is dirty, dusty work. Why do you think I started robbing stage coaches?"

"I hear they smell, too," she said dryly. When Clint wasn't comparing war stories with her, he was complaining about either cows or buffalo. Much in the way she complained about snow. One tended to hate what one was surrounded with in one's youth. Herd animals, as far as she could tell, were the most neutral aspect of Clint’s upbringing. He’d lost his family around the same age she had, killed on their ranch during a Comanche raid. The tribe had taken him, as some sort of servant or pet. She’d hear bits of their language every once in a while, if he was very tired, very angry, or very drunk. The first time he introduced her to Mexican tequila, they’d both lost their English and were reduced to hand gestures.

_’They taught me to hunt and I hunted them,’_ was all he ever said on how he escaped, but she could imagine about how that went, given that he could shoot an apple off someone’s head with his eyes closed.

"Would you ever live here again? In America?" she asked, suddenly curious.

"I don't know. I loved San Francisco. It's never hot, and it's never _too cold_. Brisk, lots of fog, clean air."

"We should go there sometime." She was surprised when the words came out, but found she didn't want to take them back. "I've never been. I like clean."

He tipped the hat up again to smile at her. "You'd like it," he said. "I have a house there."

_Yes, I heard_ , she thought. "How many rooms are full of arrows?"

"At the moment, it's full of tenants. Well, one family. I'm not a slumlord."

She tilted her head. "Well, better then letting it sit empty."

"I should have sold it long ago. It was a foolish purchase."

Nat shifted, leaning closer to him and grabbing her half finished glass on the way. "Is there a story there?"

He glanced over at her. “It was after what was supposed to be my very last heist. Before Shield.” While his childhood with the Comanches known to only a very tiny few—perhaps only her—pretty much everyone at Shield knew about the years he’d spent robbing trains and stages. Stories about his exploits had grown to such epic proportions that Fury had come to California personally just to track him down and offer him a job. “For a little while there, I had the vague idea that I might someday be the sort of man who would die in a warm bed." He tipped his hat up, watching both Starks jump up to retrieve the little red-haired boy who'd decided to climb the block of ice. She was pretty sure that was the same boy they'd met the first day—though there were so many Starklings she couldn't entirely tell them apart.

"It seems less likely now, doesn't it?" she asked, watching Stark peel the little boy off the ice and hand him to Pepper. The inventor took the opportunity to peer at the ice and chip off a piece before turning back to them.  "Another hour or so and I think we could move onto some hot water bottles," he told them brightly.

Stark went back to his chair. Clint put the hat over his eyes. "I am going to die of blood loss or gangrene. Probably in some city where I don't know a soul to identify me before I rot, so will be buried in an unmarked grave. Just the hand I've been dealt."

It was a fate she had long ago come to accept for herself. But recently she'd thought, perhaps, there might be a different path. "I'll be there," she said, quiet but firm. “I'll see to you."

He sat up, and took the hat off so he could look at her. He studied her face in that quiet, intent way he had. Then he looked out into the distance, like he was seeing something that wasn't there. Something from the past. "Would you put me out? If it was bad?"

For most people the answer was probably "No, of course not, there's always a chance." But Nat was not most people. Hadn't been in a very long time. And over the years working with Clint she had come to realize he wasn't most people either. "Two in your head. Or a blade to the throat. Quick and clean."

"Arterial spray is messy," he said. Then he turned and looked at her. "Thank you. Likewise."

She nodded and smiled. "Good."

Her eyes shifted behind her, looking at Coulson. "What do you think he's so worried about?"

A glance back told her he was still scribbling on a piece of paper. "I'm not sure. But I don't think Stark's grandfather was the only one who knew the legend of our frozen captain."

*

Once they'd gotten the block of ice removed, the man was still frozen solid. So he'd been carried inside and put in a bathtub full of warm water. Stark's bathroom was large enough to house a family of four in a middle class neighborhood, so he had a table brought in, and Clint, Stark, and Coulson sat around playing cards. They'd thrown Natasha out after she nearly cleaned them all out in two hands. Mrs. Stark took her upstairs to lend her a cooler summer dress.

"So is he?" Stark asked, two more hands in.

"Is who what?" Coulson asked tiredly.

"Captain America back there. Is he immortal?"

Coulson looked at Stark a long, intense moment. He was doing a thousand yard stare thing he sometimes did when he was facing down something dark and unpleasant. Finally, he said, "That's the theory."

"Is he Asgardian?" Clint asked.

"Not. . . precisely."

Stark sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Look, you obviously want to tell us. We absolutely want to know. So either we play twenty questions or you can just spill the goddamn story."

Coulson sighed deeply. "In the early part of the century certain. . . artifacts from Asgard came into the hands of the organization the eventually became Shield. It was discovered that when they came in contact with a human it would give them remarkable powers. Including immortality. Or it could make you explode."

"And he was one of the ones who didn't explode?" That got Clint a look from Stark that said 'Don't ask stupid questions'.

"So now he's alive, stuck in the ice for a century. . ." Stark turned to look at the tub. "Is he going to freak out when he wakes up? Running water, lights. You know how weird people are still about the electric lights and they're not from the era of Mad King George."

"Probably, yes," Coulson said. "I don't know if there's anything we can do to prevent it. It's not like we can all pretend it's still 1812; that would last all of five minutes." He shrugged. "He's a man who was touched by alien artifacts and became a legend. I think he can handle it."

"Did he really steal a warship from the Royal Navy?"

Coulson grinned. "So the legend says."

From the bathtub, suddenly there was a gasp, and a cough.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _The Trickster & The Truthful_.


	4. The Trickster & The Truthful

_Ravello, Italy - October, 1893_

It was already starting to get cool and drizzly back in London. There had been a snowstorm during their train trip through the Alps. But in the tiny town tucked on the Italian coast that was their final destination, the weather was perfect. Sunny, breezy, and a middle temperature that was neither hot nor cold. The private house they'd rented perched on a cliff, and allowed Natasha to sit on the terrace overlooking the ocean, breathe the sea air, and relax. 

They'd chased a lot of dead ends lately. This one was probably the same. A wealthy professional con artist who had—according to rumor—progressed to actual magic. But Signor Santo had stolen from _La Cosa Nostra_ , which caused noise that reached Fury. . . so here they were. At least they were wasting time in a gorgeous place.

Then Clint intruded on her solitude by coming out onto the terrace with an armload of climbing gear. He crouched down to squint at the massive stone railing lining the terrace. "Morning. How sturdy do you think this is?"

She looked at his gear, then the railing, then him again. "No."

He turned to look at her. "What?"

"You are not rappelling down the cliffside because you're bored."

He made a face. "I'm not bored. I've been told the water down there is warmer than the air. I'm going swimming."

Oh, that was much better. She put a hand on the rail and pushed, relieved it didn't budge. She crouched down to inspect where the rails met the floor, then stood. "You should be all right."

He smiled at her. "Thank you." She watched him fix his anchor and rigging, and toss the ropes over the side. She liked to tie a line around her waist, he thought that was for sissies. He certainly had the skill for it, but he did have a certain casual disregard for his own safety that always bothered her. 

He leaned against the rail and unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Coulson told me apparently Santo bought his castle a year ago with a wagon full of gold and jewels."

She crossed her arms. "If he's fleecing the _Nostra_ then I'm sure he has money to spare. Certainly sounds like he has a flare for the dramatic." Now his shirt was coming off and it was suddenly much warmer out on the terrace. "Maybe we should have brought Stark. I bet they speak the same language."

"I never did anything ostentatious with my hauls. Melted the gold, fenced any jewelry. Low profile. But this guy—he wants attention." He swung his leg over the rail, and then stretched his arms over his head. None of the men she had to look at naked over the course of her work ever looked like that. 

"He certainly doesn't seem afraid of reprisal." She peered over the rail at the water below. "If you get in trouble, I am not going in after you."

"Yes, dear," he said. He leaned over to reach for the ropes, swung his other leg over, and descended downward. She watched him go, enjoying the ripple of muscle under skin. The man had phenomenal arms, really. When he hit the water he dove beneath the surface and she held her breath a little until he popped back up. She waved and smiled when he waved back, water droplets spraying off his arm.

"I thought Barton came out here?" Coulson asked from behind her.

Without a word she pointed to the ropes, then to the figure in the water. "He wanted a swim."

"There's a beach half a mile down the road."

"Yes, but you see, the cliff was right here."

Coulson opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head. His collar and cuffs were as perfectly starched as ever, dark suit and understated ascot. Traveling with the two of them was like watching the yin and yang of men's fashion. One wore cowboy boots in a ballroom and the other would wear that ascot to the beach.

"I got a little more intel. Sounds like the man has a wife. They donate generously to the local poor, and Signora Santo has been known to occasionally serve as a midwife."

Nat frowned thoughtfully. "A good samaritan wife doesn't really fit with the grandstanding con-man."

"This is just getting weirder by the minute. Not yet ‘Thor's Hammer’ weird, but there's something about this. . ."

"It's all a little surreal," she agreed. "Are we going to just go up and ring the bell?"

"You think we should sneak in?" He got up, and went over to the rail. "We've got work to do," he bellowed down to the water.

"I don't know that breaking into the house of a notorious criminal with potential magic powers is a great idea. Is there a way to come in from the side? A social event or something?"

"They do throw a lot of parties. I could see about getting us an invitation." Behind him, Clint climbed over the railing, sopping wet with his trousers plastered to his legs. He shook himself a little and Coulson made a face, stepping out of the spray.

He grabbed his shirt to dry himself off a little, and she stared. It was impossible _not_ to. If she grabbed Clint by the belt loop and dragged him to her room it would horrify Coulson. It might get her fired. That was really all that kept her from doing so. And even then it was close.

Instead, she said in the most carefully casual tone possible, "Up for a party, Barton?"

That made him smile. "I'll go find my fancy suit." He took his dripping self into the house, calling out. "I'll need your help with the stupid tie," over his shoulder. 

"I'll see what I can get us _entre_ to," Coulson said.

She nodded, and got up herself so she could go survey her evening gown situation. She was nearly to the door when Coulson said, "Natasha."

 Her shoulders hunched, but she turned and looked back at her boss with a blandly interested look on her face. "Yes?"

"You've got to get that out of your system," he said quietly. "Or one day it's going to get one or both of you killed."

She knew that. She'd known that a very long time. How to shake it? That was what she didn't know. "Understood," she said.

He nodded. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She returned the nod and went into the house.

*

Clint thought he knew opulent. Stark's houses were opulent. The railroad barons in San Francisco had a running competition on opulent. It was impressive and shiny and generally a waste of money, in his opinion. But, apparently, no one did opulent like the Italians did opulent.

Coulson referred to their mark's place as a villa. Clint was pretty sure palace was a better word. It sprawled along the cliff's edge, multiple levels and stairs allowing it to be cut almost organically into the land. It was lit up as bright as daytime, with what had to be every socialite in the province milling about. It put anything Stark had ever done to shame.

He was, however, completely distracted by Nat's dress.

Proper society ball gowns—like the kind that were required at any party Stark threw—had gotten pretty ridiculous lately. Gigantic puffy sleeves that Nat hated and he took endless joy in teasing her about. If the dress was frilly, ridiculous, and aggressively modest, it was much easier not to look at how tiny that very tight-laced corset made her waist.

She'd brought a very different dress to Italy. It was a courtesan's dress, all dark satin and draped fabric, bits of red lace, bared shoulders and a not-quite-inappropriate neckline. It was the dress she wore when she wanted men to stop talking and cooperate.

She wasn't aiming it at him, but it was working anyway.

"We should split up," she said, scanning the crowd. "At least as first. Get the lay of the land and hopefully eyes on our hosts." She glanced up at him. "I don't imagine they'll be hard to spot."

"Sounds good," he said. Then he added, in absence of logic and possibly sanity, "Save me a dance later."

She arched a brow and he was afraid for a moment he was about to get a lecture. But she just smiled and gave a slight nod. "Of course."

And she turned out to be correct. Their host was not hard to find.

He was so immaculately dressed he gave Coulson a run for his money. But while Clint's boss went for neat but forgettable, this guy had style. Clint might prefer boots and shirtsleeves but he knew a quality cut jacket when he saw one. The tie and vest were blindingly white but his pocket square was green, an unexpected splash of color on an otherwise standard palette. His black hair was slicked back and he carried a walking stick with a solid gold top. Clint was pretty sure that was more weapon than fashion accessory, based on the way Santo occasionally flipped it.

It didn't take very long for Clint to figure out that the other man could hold himself in a fight, and was likely serious trouble. Nat was right, they might need to go at this sideways. Maybe the wife would be a good weak point.

Speaking of, she had just joined Santo at the front of the room. She was tall and long limbed, with a heart shaped face and light brown hair. Her dress was no where near as eye catching as Nat's, but nor was it as ridiculous as the ones Mrs. Stark tended to wear. It was the same dark green as Santo's pocket square, with lacy, fluttery sleeves and cream accents, including silk roses along the hem. She wore an elaborate necklace and earrings but on her hands she wore only a simple gold ring with what looked like a poor quality emerald set in it. Yet another incongruity to add to the list.

Santo slipped his arm around her when she reached him and she stretched up to whisper something in his ear that made him smile. Yeah, definitely his weak spot.

Nat materialized at his side. "Is it just me or is your weirdness alarm going off?"

"Yes. I can't put my finger on it, though."

"Everything we know about this guy tells me he should be scanning the room for his next mistress. Everything we know about _her_ tells me she should be quiet and unassuming and genteel. But he hasn't looked at another woman the entire time we've been here. And I got close enough to her to size her up and she's no ordinary society lady." She watched the couple in that way she had when she was contemplating their prey. "I get this odd feeling like I'm watching actors. That they're pretending to play these roles because they think it's funny."

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said. "Can we peel one of them off?" He looked down at her, and the expanse of white skin spilling out of the top of the dress. For a moment he lost his train of thought. "You went by? He didn't look?"

"Not even a flicker," she said, sounding vaguely insulted. "He noted my presence, but there was no _look_."

"I'm. . ." He shook his head. "Even Coulson looked."

She gave a little shudder. "Yes. I know."

He held out his hand. "Come on, let's dance. You think better when you're doing something." She slipped her hand into his without a word and he lead her to the floor with the other dancers.

Sometimes when Nat was thinking particularly intently on something her face scrunched up, much like a child trying to sort out how to best get to the sweets bin. She was approaching that stage now. "Do you think it's possible he really is a magician of some sort?"

Clint didn't know a whole lot of dances, but the waltz was, in fact, one of them. "You mean in the sleight-of-hand sort of way? Or actually conjuring things?"

"Conjuring. I know it sound mad, but after Thor and Rogers. . . is anything really impossible?"

"At this point? No." That wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of things that were impossible. The two of them having a dance just for the sake of each other's company. Going home and helping her unlace her corset. Sitting on his porch watching the fog roll into San Francisco Bay. There were more impossible things than he could count.

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, just for a heartbeat. "I think magic is above my pay grade."

"Maybe it's time we got a raise." 

They danced the rest of the dance quietly, and he decided to just enjoy the rare pleasure of having her in his arms.

When the dance ended, he looked up the Santo and his wife. They were sitting on their dais at the end of the room, watching the crowd. "Nat? Am I crazy or do their eyes both look a little. . . vacant? They didn't before, but now it's like they're. . . I don't know how to describe it."

They stood near the dance floor, watching their hosts a moment. Finally Nat said, "It's like a painting. They move and have substance but they're flat." Her shoulders hunched, like she was hiding a shiver. "Seriously, Barton, what the hell is going on around here?"

"Maybe they're ghosts. I think it's time we went to say hello."

She slid her hand into the crook of his arm without a word, and together they made their way through the crowd towards the dais. The blank look was even more obvious up close. Nat was right, there was something artificial and static about the pair.

Was this some sort of animated wax dummy? How was that even possible? They both turned to look at him, but they didn't really seem to actually do so. Their eyes were completely blank, like when someone died with their eyes open. He didn't know what possessed him, but he reached out to touch Santo's arm. 

The man vanished in a flash of green.

The ballroom fell silent. Then a woman screamed, and there was chaos.

Nat pressed into his side as the crowd started to stampede. There was a lot of yelling—way more then the event really deserved, in Clint's opinion—and the ballroom emptied. He was pretty sure at least a few people got far more injured in the panic then they would have by sticking around to see what the hell was going on.

 When the worst of it was over it was just him and Nat left in an empty ballroom. She took in the wreckage, then looked up at him, eyes wide in surprise.

To their left a door creaked open and Santo and his wife slipped out, looking decidedly. . . rumpled. Signora Santo looked up at her husband and shook her head. "Oh, no one will notice. It'll be _fine_."

He shrugged, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to slick it back again. "Well, no one in Asgard ever caught on."

"Oh, of course," Clint said. "Asgard."

The couple swiveled as one, noticing them for the first time. Santo's walking stick appeared in his hand as his face darkened. Clint and Nat both tensed but Signora Santo slammed an arm across her husband's chest. "No killing," she said in a tone one would use to scold a puppy. Then she turned a brilliant smile on them. "I don't think we've been introduced."

Clint watched them, and moved so he was between them and Nat. She would probably be irritated at him for it—and frankly she had more weapons hidden in that skirt than the knife he had on him. But it was entirely instinct. "We are friends of your crown prince," he said. "I'd be careful if I were you."

Santo rolled his eyes and groaned. "Of course you are."

His wife patted his arm sympathetically. "Oh, you knew we'd run into him eventually. The realm is only so large."

"He is supposed to be on that frigid island in the north with his woman."

"They have boats, darling."

Nat shoved Clint over enough to peer around him a the two of them. "Who are you?"

Santo pulled himself to his full height. "I am Loki, of Asgard. Brother of the crowned prince. This is my consort, Syn of Alfheim."

The look she turned on him could have shattered glass. " _Consort_?"

"Wife," he corrected quickly.

He turned his head so only Nat could see and hear him, and murmured, "This is worse than the Starks."

Nat shrugged. "She doesn't look pregnant."

He turned back. "I'm Barton. She's Romanova. We're with Shield. We handle. . . weird things for British Empire. And this is pretty damn weird."

Loki looked slightly offended but Syn just smiled again. "And Thor works with you? Is he here, too?"

"He consults. He lives in England, and prefers to stay there. We're an advance team. We travel around to meet people who have gained our notice." And other things, like spying and assassination. But now didn't seem the time to mention that.

"Oh, we caught your attention, did we?" Syn gave Loki a pointed look. 

Which he ignored entirely. "I was not going to live in a hovel."

"Which meant you needed to steal from a criminal organization."

"You said I couldn't rob nice people!"

Nat came to stand at Clint's side. "This is way more entertaining then the Starks."

He looked down at her. "You think they're evil? He did try to kill his brother. I'm pretty sure he's the guy who sent that big metal fire-breathing thing."

"I don't think _she's_ evil," Nat said thoughtfully. "She feeds the poor and delivers babies, no one is that good an actress. I'm not sure about him. She's not afraid of him."

"You know we _can_ hear you," Loki said, not sounding all that put out. He also sounded very. . . British aristocracy. Clint wondered if it was affectation—though Thor generally sounded like particularly dramatic member of the House of Lords giving an impassioned speech all the time, so maybe that's how they all were. If you asked the Brits they'd probably tell you that was the only proper way to speak.

"The incident with the destroyer was a complete misunderstanding," Syn said. "Why don't we find some wine and sit down for a nice polite chat? Everyone can keep their weapons stowed and we can pretend we're civilized people?"

"Would you mind if we sent for our boss?"

The Asgardians exchanged a look that Clint was pretty sure contained an entire conversation. Finally, Loki shrugged and threw up his hands and Syn turned back to them. "The more the merrier."

*

"So then I went down and lied to my brother, telling him Odin was dead and his exile was permanent. I thought the throne would be mine."

Loki was deep into his tale when Coulson arrived. Nat had sent him a short, encoded explanatory note—but they had to stop the tale to fill him in. He started asking questions, which caused Loki to point his walking stick at him, and Syn to repeat, "No killing." Coulson looked at her and Clint and they both shrugged. Then Loki politely refilled their wineglasses and retuned to his tale. "When I told her what I was about, she hit me with her staff." He reached up to rub his arm, like it was still sore.

"I draw the line at outright genocide. And I like Thor, he was always nice to me." Loki made a face and drank his wine as Syn took over the story. "It was obvious we'd need Thor to help repel the Jotuns when they invaded, but he'd be useless without his hammer, so we sent the Destroyer down to give him a little nudge towards worthiness."

Nat raised a hand. "You sent a multi-ton, literal killing machine to _help_ him?"

"Admittedly, it wasn't my cleverest plan," Loki admitted. "But we were on a bit of a schedule."

Syn reached over and patted his arm. "Once Thor was back in Asgard, the Jotuns were defeated easily and, well, it was time to face the consequences."

"Wait, back up," Clint said. "Why did you tell her about your sinister plot in the first place?"

Loki looked perplexed and glanced over at Syn, then back at Clint. "Well, she asked."

"I think my exact words were 'What the Hel is going on?'" Syn offered, pouring herself more wine.

"You also called me an idiot," Loki said with unhidden affection.

"They say honesty is the key to a happy marriage," Coulson said mildly.

"Well, I haven't much choice with her."

They all turned to look at Syn, who hastily swallowed the wine she'd just drunk. "I can't lie," she said. "And I can tell when others are lying. Family curse. Comes in quite handy in dealing with him."

"That's awful," Nat and Clint both muttered in near unison. She added, "But also useful."

Syn grinned. "You learn to tell the truth. . . creatively."

"You were saying something about consequences?" Coulson asked, valiantly trying to get them back on topic.

"Yes," Loki drawled. "There was a trial once Odin woke. And, because he completely lacks imagination, I was sent down here. Exiled indefinitely."

"Would have been nice if someone had asked us if we wanted to be Prison to the Gods," Coulson said.

"I don't disagree."

"Wait," Nat said. "Exile for you—" She pointed at Loki. "I get. But what did you do?" she asked Syn. "Seems like you kept a bad situation from getting a hell of a lot worse."

The other woman sipped her wine again. "Where he goes, I go," she said simply.

Nat tried to think if there was anyone she would literally give up everything for. It was an effort not to look at Clint when she thought it.

He piped up with a very dry, "Yes. What a terrible, terrible, cell you are stuck in here." 

"It has it's amusements," Loki conceded with a shrug.

"Thanks to your public vanishing act," Coulson said. "You may want to find another location to set up your operation of crimes and confidence games."

"Yes, I had come to the same conclusion." 

Nat was kind of impressed with how much disdain the man could put in only a few words. Thor was just so. . . friendly. It was hard to believe they'd been raised together.

Coulson slid a card across the table. "Please cable us with your new location. If you do not, we will send your brother to locate you."

Syn took the card before Loki could move. "I'll see to it," she assured Coulson.

He bowed to her. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

She stood and kicked Loki's chair so he would rise as well. "Give Thor our best," she said as Nat, Clint and Coulson headed for the door.

"But not our location," Loki added.

* * *

End Part One

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _On a Ship Tossed About in the Sea, an Errand of Love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Syn is an OC from Nyx's _The Dark Inside_ series. This story is not a part of that series and you don't have to read that for this one to make sense, though it may fill in some of her background. She was just too much fun not to use. You can consider this Syn an AU version of that one.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and for reading. We should be able to keep posting twice a week until the fic is done.


	5. On a Ship Tossed About in the Sea, an Errand of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Part the Second** _
> 
> _LOST: One Peculiar stone. High reward for Safe Return offered. Do not attempt to Handle. Consequences are dire._

_HMS Aegis, Somewhere in the North Atlantic - January, 1894_

 

When Natasha had joined Shield, she'd considered herself pretty jaded. She'd seen luxury and she'd seen poverty, and she'd seen all sorts of technological advancements far from rural Russia.

But the very first time she'd seen this ship, it had blown her away. An entire Ocean Liner converted into a mobile command center, full of luxury accommodations and a world of features and devices that seemed straight out of fantastical fiction. It could make the crossing in five days flat. In the four years since Stark had come work for them, it had only gotten more impressive. He'd fitted it with his wireless telegraph and a hundred other things—even a submarine.

But all his advancements couldn't do a damn thing about the weather. They were stuck in a very nasty storm, one that tossed around even a big, sturdy ship like theirs. She and Coulson were sitting in the war room on the bridge deck, going through the ocean’s worth of intel they'd taken on during their visit to Washington DC where Fury had a meeting with President Cleveland. It passed the time.

"You check on Barton down there?" Coulson asked. "He still alive?" 

"I went down to his bunk about an hour ago." Bunk was not the word for the staterooms they had been assigned, but some lingo was hard to shake. "Made him eat a piece of toast and left him a mug of tea. His skin was a color usually reserved for fungus that grows underneath fallen trees, but I think he'll make it." 

This ship pitched and Coulson grabbed his glass before it slid. "I have seen him hang upside down off a cliff face for an hour like it was no big deal. I don't get it." Thunder crashed overhead. "Is this a hurricane? It keeps getting worse."

She looked upwards, counting in her head. When she got to twenty she said, "Where's the lightning?"

He looked up, too. "That's. . .odd."

There was another roll of thunder, this one so loud it shook the room, and a loud crash on deck. Nat and Coulson stood in unison, each grabbing a gun. She wasn't sure what they were going to do with them, not like the rain cared about bullets, but they were both the type to feel better with one in their hand.

They made their way out to the deck, squinting in the rain. "Shield agents!" she called. "Show yourself."

"Stand down," came a familiar voice, and then Thor appeared in the light from the cabin windows, walking towards them. There was a circle of dry following him as he walked. "I apologize for the thunder, you were hard to spot in the real storm."

Nat lowered her gun. "Well, you know how to make an entrance, I'll give you that."

"My apologies, Miss Romanova." He bowed. "Shall we go inside?"

She inclined her head, backing up into the cabin so he could follow. Coulson tossed her a towel and she fluffed it through her hair while the men said their hellos. "I don't suppose you can do anything about the real storm? Barton's not handling the rocking very well."

"Oh. Certainly." He looked up, and the entire storm just. . .vanished.

That was a very neat trick. Coulson poured Thor a cup of coffee and sat at the table. "To what do we owe the visit, Thor?"

"I am in search of something I believe your organization may have in its possession."

Coulson glanced over at Nat. "If we can help you we will, of course."

Nat started packing up the papers while Thor spoke. "A thousand years ago, my father led an army to protect this realm from a frost giant invasion. When the war was over, some of our soldiers had formed relationships with human women. They wanted to bring these women home to Asgard as brides. Normally, this would be forbidden, but my father made an exception. He created a. . .I don't think there's a comparable English noun. A magical object. It would imbue Asgardian qualities on those who held it."

Coulson was staring at him and Nat had frozen mid paper shuffle. "Qualities like extended life span? Super-human strength?" she asked.

"Yes, precisely. It was lost, or forgotten, not long after the army returned home. Heimdall, who guards the Bifrost and sees all the realms, says it is somewhere on Midgard, and has been used in the recent past. It seemed the sort of thing in your area of expertise. I need it."

Nat had worked with Coulson long enough to recognize his ‘torn about spilling state secrets’ face. She cleared her throat and arched a brow when he looked at her. "Tell him."

"We had it," he said slowly, looking back at Thor. "Almost a hundred years ago. It was used in an attempt to make super soldiers. It was lost soon afterwards."

"You _lost_ it?"

"There was some political upheaval at the time. War. . ." Coulson trailed off in embarrassment.

Nat shook her head. "Well. We do have the only successful test subject. Maybe Steve knows what happened to it."

"I would be most appreciative," Thor said. "It is an endeavor of love."

Coulson drummed his fingers on the table. "I'll go talk to Fury about turning the ship around." He nodded at Thor. "Find him some quarters."

Nat watched him go, then looked back at the Asgardian. "For Jane, I assume?"

"Yes. The fragility of human life is terrifying to me. And I don't frighten often. I wish to take her home and rule at my side some day. But at the moment I do not know if my sanity can survive another winter." 

"You could try moving somewhere warmer," she offered, leading him down the hall towards the empty staterooms. "Less illness."

"She is inexplicably fond of England."

Clint's door opened just as they approached it. He looked. . . terrible, but was at least upright. He blinked at Thor. "Oh. That's why."

"Good evening, Mr. Barton."

He pointed at Thor. "Anything you need. _Ever._ "

"Son of Coul and Miss Romanova have agreed to aid me in my quest to find the artifact that will allow my precious Jane to live as an Asgardian. I would be honored if you would join the quest as well."

"I will, but I still owe you. I'd have come alone anyway." He hooked a thumb at Nat. "I go where she goes. Otherwise, I'd rather have hot pokers stuck in my eyes than continue to ride around on this god awful fucking boat." He ducked back in his room and shut the door without another word.

_I go where she goes,_ Why did that sound familiar? "I'll bring you more tea," she called through the door before heading own the hall again.

Thor looked a little perplexed. She just shrugged. "He gets _really_ sea sick," she explained.

"Have you considered flying? It's much smoother."

"Stark is working on it. Nothing viable yet, but I'm sure he'll announce it from the mountain tops when he gets there." She pushed open the last door in the row. "Here you go. Let me know if you need anything. We should be back in the States in a day or so."

"Thank you," he said. "This suite is quite lovely and I appreciate your hospitality."

She smiled. She'd had very little interaction with Thor after that first interrogation, but she liked him. He was always unfailingly polite. Princely manners, she supposed. "You're welcome. You're part of the team."

He smiled back at her, bowed, and went into his room. Nat headed back to the galley for Clint's tea.

*

_Boston, Massachusetts_

Steve Rogers had never really minded snow. He'd been born in Boston, a part of the country that could have some rough winters. It was home, and it was where he wanted to be. But in the very depths of winter, he wished he'd moved to the Caribbean. When the wind blew a certain way, and the cold seeped into his house, his dreams turned dark.

Today it was at least sunny outside, if frigid and sparkling white. And his house was astonishingly warm. It had a central heating system, which used steam to warm the rooms evenly. As long as he kept it in coal, his house was warm. It was one of the few items of this new world he embraced with both arms. After a lifetime hunched by a hearth, it was miraculous. 

Waking up after nearly 80 years frozen in ice had been. . . disconcerting was nowhere near an adequate word. The world was unrecognizable, in every possible aspect. He hadn't known where to start. Thankfully one of the men who'd been there when he woke up in that bathtub was fond of his legend, and had more money than God. Being set up in a house by Stark hadn't sat quite right—but it was better than taking the British up on their offer to experiment on him more.

And he had no useful trade. They powered ships by great steam engines now. His sort of sailor was completely obsolete. Maybe someday he could find a new trade. Carpenters were still needed. He was still good with his hands, still strong as an ox. Maybe someday when the world didn't confuse him quite as much he could find a way to be a part of it again.

For now he was content keeping his house and entertaining his rare visitors.

He'd spotted the carriage coming down his lane right away. Miss. Romanova's hair was easy to spot and it was logical to assume the two men bundled in dark coats were Barton and Coulson. But the enormous blonde man with them was a stranger. And dressed in the oddest outfit Steve had ever seen.

He watched them get out of the carriage. The stranger might have been in some sort of military uniform, he wasn't sure. He wrapped himself in a red cloak against the chilly air. He was followed by Barton and Coulson in their gray coats, and Romanova, wrapped in velvet and furs. He went to get the door himself as he kept no servants—technology had made life so extraordinarily easier than it had been during his previous life, and yet now everyone thought they needed domestic help.

Romanova reached the door first, smiling when he opened it. "Hello, Captain. I hope we're not disturbing you."

He was fond of her. She'd been very kind to him when he'd first woken up. Everyone else had been very interested in asking him questions. She had been interested in calming him down, and making him comfortable. 

He remembered the men, staring and questioning and arguing with each other. Then it was blurry, until he was in a comfortable bed, two red haired woman floating over him dressed all in white. He'd been fairly convinced he was dead, and they were angels. Neither she nor Mrs. Stark teased him about that. Much.

"You are always welcome, please come in."

They filed into the foyer, shedding coats and boots. He shook Barton and Coulson's hands before turning to the stranger. "Captain, this is Thor Odinsson," Coulson said. "He's from Asgard. Thor, this is Captain Steven Rogers."

He held out his hand. "The big hammer, right? Nice to meet you."

Thor's handshake was firm, bordering on too tight, but his smile was genuine. "Captain. Miss Romanova and Son of Coul have told me tales of your exploits. You were a fine warrior."

"Thank you. Come, sit down. Is anyone hungry? I have cheese and bread and all sorts of canned food." Canned food was one of the other things. He'd heard of it, in his other life, something experimental that was supposed to revolutionize ship provisions and end scurvy. But it had sounded dangerous and strange back then. Now, clearly, the entire population had it, and he got to experience the singular miracle of summer fruit and vegetables in January.

"I would love a snack," Romanova said. "And Barton hasn't kept down a meal in three days so I'm sure some bread sounds wonderful."

The archer gave her a dirty look as they all followed Steve deeper into the house. He put them in the parlor and went to get a tray of bread and cheese and canned peaches in a bowl. He also brought out a jug of small beer. He understood, intellectually, that the water that came out of the wall was safe to drink. It just really didn't seem like it should be, so he didn't.

Thor accepted the beer with far more excitement then it deserved. The others helped themselves to the food. Coulson and Barton mostly out of politeness, but Romanova seemed to be as much a fan of canned fruit as Steve. 

When everyone was seated with plates in front of them Coulson spoke up. "Captain, we needed to ask you some questions about the artifact they used on you."

That certainly doused his good mood. "What about it?"

"According to Shield’s records, it was lost around the same time you went into the ice. We were wondering if you remembered anything about that. If you had any idea where it might have gone."

He watched them for a moment, and sighed. At least they hadn't brought Fury. Though this would surely summon him and all his noise. "I know exactly where it is. I took it."

Coulson stared. Barton and Romanova grinned widely. Steve had noticed the two of them seemed to be in favor of the occasional bout of insubordination. Thor looked delighted. "Excellent! Then you can show us where it is hidden?"

"No," he said. "I'm sorry, but no. I took it so it couldn't hurt anyone else, and I'm not handing it over."

"Hurt anyone?" Thor frowned. "I don't understand. It was created as a kindness, who did it harm?"

"I am the only one to survive it's full use. If you don’t hold it long enough, the affects wear off when you let go. Too long and you explode. Not neatly, or nicely. Like a corpse that's been left out too long. Sometimes it took them a day or two to die after that, assuming whomever was supervising it wasn't man enough to kill them out of mercy. The window between impermanence and death is very small, and indescribably agonizing. They tortured probably a hundred men, and blew up at least a dozen. They showed no signs of stopping, so I took it." He looked up at Thor. "What the hell is it? And how could you call it kind?"

The Asgardian looked utterly stunned. And sad. Steve could see every one of those deaths weigh on him. "It was made for women," he said quietly. "To allow our warriors to bring home those they had fallen in love with while here on Midgard. I know of no deaths from its use. There are women in Asgard now who used it, living happily with their husbands and children. It was never intended to be used the way you describe."

Steve watched him. "Is that what you want it for?"

He nodded. "Her name is Jane. I met her when I first came here. She is. . . my world. I would have her use it and then return it to the vaults of Asgard. It would never harm another."

"Maybe it needs to be handled by an Asgardian to work." He shrugged. "But if you promise to take it home with you, I will show you where it is."

"I swear, as a prince of Asgard," Thor said solemnly.

"So," Romanova said brightly. "Treasure hunt?"

Steve smiled. "Absolutely. I'm going to need a sailing ship."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Wherein there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought._


	6. Wherein There is Nothing Lost, That May be Found, if Sought.

Given the right motivation Shield could acquire just about anything on relatively short notice. Clint wasn't particularly _happy_ to be getting on yet another boat. But Steve had promised it was a short trip and had just looked so excited to be on a ship with sails that it was hard to begrudge him the trip. Nat stood next to him at the rail, looking away politely when he was casting up and patting his back when he wasn't. The instant Stark figured out flying Clint was never getting on a boat again. 

It was freezing cold, but the ocean was calm, with good wind. Even he knew enough about New England in the winter to know that was Thor's doing. They put into the harbor of an island called Nantucket, which looked sparsely populated and like it had seen better days.

"This used to be a large whaling town," Steve said. "Time marches on, I suppose."

Clint was just happy to be on solid ground.

They got a few odd looks as they made their way off the docks. Clint was used to Nat getting attention, but this time he was pretty sure it was Thor everyone was staring at. Not a lot of Viking gods in New England. Steve seemed to know where they were going, even with the passage of time. As treasure hunts went, this was kind of boring.

They went all the way to the end of the island, down the beach, and Steve stopped. There was another small island across from them, and an inlet maybe fifty feet wide between them.

"Huh," he said. "This used to be land."

Nat looked up at Thor. "I don't suppose you can make ice or anything like that?"

Coulson sighed in that annoyed way only he could. "Who wants to go for a swim in the freezing cold water?"

Thor looked amused. "Do you think I swam to your steamship?" He began to swing his hammer in a circle. "I will have to carry you one at a time."

"Just me," Rogers said. "The rest of you can stay here, you don't need to see where my stash is."

"The fact that you apparently have a treasure hoard makes me like you a little bit more," Clint told him.

"You can head back to town," he replied. "There's certainly a tavern or something of that nature. Go get warm. We'll find you."

Coulson looked decidedly unhappy, but nodded. Nat called, "Good luck!" as Thor and the Captain took off. Then the three of them trudged back to town in search of said tavern.

They found it easily, and inside it was warm and smokey, with a gigantic hearth. Nat and Coulson got themselves some ale, but he felt that might be unwise for his stomach, so he settled for a chair near the fire, close enough he could unbundle his coat and scarf. Nat sat next to him, sipping her ale and stretching her feet towards the fire.

Coulson glared into his drink. "Let's not tell Fury we've recovered the stone," he said finally.

"Agreed." Clint paused. "Though, is there anything he could do to Thor and Steve anyway? Except yell?"

"No," he admitted. "But there would be a lot of yelling, which might strain relations. And I prefer to keep our insubordination quiet and subtle."

"Coulson is being insubordinate," Nat said. "We've been doing this too long."

"Finding people is one thing. Recruitment is fine. Do either of you imagine he wouldn't be all over the idea that he could _make_ Asgardians? Make better people? Look at what happened to Dr. Banner."

Nat sipped her ale. "He's not stupid. He knows we'd turn on him. Thor, Steve. Banner. Probably Stark. No one on the roster is quite as morally grey as Fury."

"He'd just lie," Coulson said, sounding tired. "Tell himself it was for the greater good."

"Well," Clint muttered. "None of us are saints."

"I think that's actually our unofficial motto," Nat said. 

"Saints don't get things done." Coulson took a long swallow of his drink. "But there's a line. I don't know where it is but I always recognize it when I come up against it. Trying to turn people into gods crosses it."

Clint stared at the crackling fire. "I'd hate to live forever."

"According to Thor it's really only five thousand years or so." Coulson stood, taking his empty mug back to the bar for a refill.

"I can't imagine," Nat said softly. "Watching everyone you know die. It must be so isolating. I don't know how Steve isn't crazy."

He turned to look at her. "You ever think your life was easier when you were alone?"

She tilted her head, a few red curls spilling out of her hairstyle. "Simpler," she said finally. "Not easier. I like having people at my back."

"It was simpler. I think the other end of the spectrum is probably simple, too. Thor and his great love of the ages. The fairy tale of fiction and poetry. You are alone, and then you have a life companion. He skipped all the mess in the middle."

"I guess that's how it works for some people. People without pasts. Without baggage."

They certainly had, between the two of them, enough baggage to sink an ocean liner. "I suppose the mess does sometimes have its merits."

Another head tilt, this time so she could look at him. "Like what?"

He lifted a shoulder, and reached up to tuck one of those curls behind her ear. "Like it being all that we can do."

The corner of her mouth tilted up in a gentle smile, one he rarely saw, with no artifice to it. "It's not so bad. If you enjoy the company."

Before he could reply, the door to the tavern swung open, and in marched Thor and Rogers. Neither looked happy at all.

Coulson rejoined their group as the other two made their way to the hearth. "What happened?" he asked, tone indicating he really didn't want to know.

"It's gone," Rogers growled, throwing himself into a chair. "Someone took it."

"I'll get more ale," Coulson muttered, heading back to the bar.

"What about the rest of your stuff?" Nat asked, scooting closer to Clint so Thor could pull a chair in as well.

"Nothing else was touched. They took the stone and not a single other thing. Valuable things. They came specifically for it."

"So it was someone who knew what it was and how to find it." Coulson handed Steve and Thor mugs and took his seat again. "That has to be a short list of people."

Clint leaned over to Nat. "Go ask the tavern owner if he's seen anyone. . .unfamiliar lately. It's not exactly a large island."

She nodded and peeled out of her fur coat. She ran a hand over her hair to smooth the loose pieces back into the bun, leaving a handful of wispy curls next to her face. Then she stood and strolled to the bar, leaning on it. The bartender came over immediately and she beamed at him, fingers drawing a pattern on the bar top as she chatted.

He loved watching her work. She could convince anyone of anything, and they would almost assuredly enjoy the experience of being convinced. Like the best of enchantresses.

When she came back a few minutes later she looked torn between amused and angry. "You're going to love this," she said, taking her seat again. "About a year ago a couple came through. The man was tall, extremely well dressed, with dark hair. My new friend didn't like him, thought he smiled too much. But his wife was very pleasant, even helped with a birth while they were in town. He remembers she had pretty green eyes, just like me."

One by one, Clint, Coulson, and Thor each put a hand over their face. There was a moment of silence before Steve asked, "What did I miss?"

*

_New York City_

The solution bubbled in it's glass beaker, and the lab was silent as they watched it. Two weeks of work had gone into its creation, and now was the moment of truth.

"I think it's ready for testing," Banner said finally.

Tony nodded, and reached for the beaker. He lifted it up and took a drink. With a sigh, he set it back down on the table. "It tastes absolutely nothing like Coca Cola."

"That's—that's disappointing."

There was a knock on the lab door and Jarvis opened it. "Sir, you have guests. Misters Coulson and Barton, Miss Romanova, Captain Rogers and a man introduced to me as Thor. I've put them in the north parlor."

Banner looked over at him. "That's a whole lot of them."

"Maybe it's something fun." He picked up the beaker and held it out to Jarvis. "What does this taste like to you?"

"Like I know better then to ingest anything you hand me without explanation," the butler replied before walking away.

Toby grimaced and looked in the beaker. "I need less intelligent servants. Maybe Pepper'll try it. She seems to trust me."

"Do you have a wet nurse?" Banner asked.

Tony frowned at him as they went up the stairs. "Is that a. . . I don't understand, are you requesting a prostitute?"

The other man made a face. "A wet nurse. They nurse babies. You know, feed them. How do you not know that?"

"Why _would_ I?" He stepped into the main hall. "And Pepper feeds them. Jesus, I can't imagine how many kids we'd have if she didn't. Eight is enough for the moment."

"You have nine," Banner said. "And if you don't have a wet nurse you shouldn't be feeding your wife strange substances that contain cocaine, is all I'm saying." 

"I suppose that rules out the kids, too," he muttered, "The Shield people will be way too suspicious. We need stupider associates, my friend." He pushed open the door to the parlor. "Look at this crowd. I don't recall planning a party."

Coulson stood up. "Hello, Mr. Stark. Dr. Banner, I didn't know you were here."

"We have a highly volatile experiment we're working on down in the lab," Tony said, before Banner could answer. "I required his assistance." He noticed small feet under one of the sofas, and was pretty sure one of the boys was under there—though he couldn't tell who from the shoes. He sat in one of the chairs that gave him a better view, just in case he tried to crawl under Romanova's skirt and got kicked in the head. The man to his left was very large and blond. "You must be the crazy hammer man."

"My reputation proceeds me," he rumbled. "Though I'm not sure if it's favorably or not."

"We were hoping you'd join us on a mission," Coulson said. "Dr. Banner, you'd be welcome, too, if you're up for it."

"Who are we taking down that requires all of us? The Queen?" Tony could see red hair under the sofa now, which meant it was Charlie. Of course it was. 

"A couple of Asgardian sorcerers, actually," Romanova said.

"And our hope is that they won't actually need to be taken out," Coulson added. "But it seemed like a show of strength might help."

"My brother and his wife are in possession of an important artifact," Thor said. "It's possible he will not want to give it up."

He looked up at Rogers. So that's why he was here. "It's your thing?"

"Yes. How—"

"I read minds," he replied. "Do not even think about it," he added in the direction of the sofa. Charlie had the bottom hem of Romanova's dress in his hands. Tony really didn't want him to get kicked in the head. He was the smartest of his offspring, and clearly only a year or two away from being a really useful lab assistant.

Romanova looked down, then scruffed the little boy and pulled him out from under the couch. "Congratulations, not many people can sneak up on me. Don't ever do it again."

"Charlie, Daddy's friends are scary, go play outside."

"I like the pretty lady," he replied, lifting his chin.

"I will make you clean the chimneys," Tony countered.

Charlie seemed to weigh his options a moment. Then he whirled, kissed Romanova's cheek and sprinted off before she could react. Tony tried not to grin too widely. Kid had balls, he'd give him that.

"How do you get anything done around there?" Coulson asked, apparently of Banner. "They seem to run around like hooligans."

"You get used to it."

"It improves reflexes," Tony added. "So where does one find two evil alien sorcerers? Foreboding castle somewhere? Mysterious cave in the mountains?"

"New Orleans," Coulson said. "They're in New Orleans."

He blinked, then turned to grin at Banner. "We can take the train."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _In Which Our Heroes Spend Two Days On a Train_


	7. In Which Our Heroes Spend Two Days On a Train

Nat would not have been surprised if it turned out Stark had his own entire train—but he did not. He did have a private Pullman car, and a boxcar all of his own, for workshop space, and because he apparently really didn't like people touching his things. It had bunks for ten, a luxurious lounge, and its own private porter.

They boarded at Grand Central in New York, and were very quickly out of the city. Stark disappeared into the boxcar with Banner, leaving the rest of them to their own devices.

Coulson had taken a bottle of something strong and amber colored into his bunk. Nat had a feeling this little adventure in insubordination was taking its toll on him. Thor had sat in the dining room with them for a while, but had obviously been distracted and had said his goodbyes. Nat was suddenly glad she didn't have any siblings.

She stretched her legs out, propping them against the bench Clint sat on. "Have you been to New Orleans?"

"Years ago. I went for a job and a poker tournament. The mark caught yellow fever before I could make my move." He paused to consider. "Amazing food. Great brothels."

Rogers coughed on his tea and Nat grinned. "Well, I'll find one of those useful." She poked his knee. "How'd you do in the poker tournament?"

"Well enough to cover my train fare. Not well enough to cover the brothel." 

She laughed out loud at that. "Probably not going to have time to go visiting this trip."

"That's too bad. Coulson looks like he could use it. Probably so could you," he said to Rogers.

The Captain arched a brow. "Are you under the impression that Boston is lacking in brothels?"

"Go to one in New Orleans and you will henceforth believe it, in fact, is."

He tipped his head back, considering that. "We might have time? How long could convincing two magicians to give up a mysterious artifact take?"

"You say that because you haven't met them," Clint commented. He put his hand on one of Nat’s boots, idly fiddling with it's buttons.

Rogers shook his head. "I read the report of when you found them. It seemed to go pretty smoothly, considering."

Nat tipped her head back on her seat, pillowed on her hair. "They were perfectly polite. When they weren't being weirdly ominous or borderline homicidal."

"And who knows how he gets on with his brother? Sounds like not well. That could be volatile."

"What confuses me is what they want with the stone in the first place." Nat picked up her cooling tea and took a sip. "Syn's already got the long life span and powers. And even if Loki wanted some sort of super-powered harem I'm fairly certain she'd castrate him before letting him do so."

"They want what Shield wanted," Rogers said. "Super-human soldiers. Raise an army, conquer a country. Or sell it to someone who wants to do that."

Clint was still fiddling with her boot. His fingers were a hair's breadth from her ankle. It was far more distracting then it should be. She should probably shift her legs away, but they didn't seem to be obeying her at the moment. "I'm not sure what's worse," he said. "Him building an army or whoever he might have sold it to. Guy isn't known for his conscience."

"We'll know soon enough," Rogers replied. "Your world is far, far smaller than mine was."

Her stockings were wool, but she could feel the warmth of his fingers through them, over the top of her boot. He was fond of casual touching, even though it was supposedly 'not done'. People held themselves very much _to_ themselves in public. Clint did not seem to care to do so. He was also the only person she could think of she would let touch her casually. It wasn't something she was used to.

They lapsed into silence for a while. Rogers finished his tea and said goodnight. She should probably go to her bunk, too. It was possible they were in for a hell of a fight when they got to New Orleans. But Clint was still tracing idle patterns on her stocking and she was remarkably comfortable right where she was.

"There probably will be time for Rogers to go visit a whorehouse. I'm going to need a day to settle."

"Mmm. At least the train doesn't seem to bother you the way the boat does."

"Fucking boat," he muttered.

She poked him with her foot. "Poor Clint."

He lifted a shoulder. "At least the company's good."

"Well, I do my best."

He looked out the window at the dark landscape, then back at her. "Speaking of your company and the Fucking Boat, did I tell you Thor came looking for you in my room?"

She laughed and sat up. "No. Seriously?"

His hand had stopped moving, just resting there nearly encircling her ankle. "He was very cheerful about it. Seemed honestly surprised we didn't share quarters."

"I feel like Asgardians are more relaxed about relationships then we are."

He sighed. She couldn't hear it, but she could see his shoulders move. "I think I envy that."

She thought of Coulson, lecturing her in Italy, and all the quelling looks he'd given her since. She stifled her own sigh. "I know what you mean."

"We don't fit," he said. "I hide from society in shadows and on rooftops. You built whatever facade is of most use. But neither of us actually belong."

Her foot was rubbing against his leg idly, she hadn't been aware she was doing that. He didn't seem to be protesting, so maybe he found it comforting. "That might explain why we spend our time with a man from another planet, one from 1812, one who changes into a green rage monster and whatever Stark is."

"Stark is a man who's going to die in his own bed."

Maybe she should go get the bottle back from Coulson. Clint looked to need it more. "That bothers you, doesn't it?"

"I don't know why I keep thinking about it. Hell, if I was honest, I'm surprised I'm still alive at all. If you'd asked me ten years ago if I thought I'd make it to thirty I'd have laughed at you." He shook his head. "Maybe it's all this traveling. All these. . .people."

"You could retire," she pointed out. "I know what they pay me and I could have retired three times over by now."

He made a face like she'd asked him to leap off the train. "No."

She chuckled. "That's how I feel about it, too."

"Do you want anything out of life? Other than the general waking up tomorrow?"

It had been a very long time since she'd thought about anything more than that. Clint always made her contemplate the things she didn't want to explore. "Sometimes I think about settling. A house, peace and quiet. Maybe a man. But I don't know if it's really what I want or if it just seems appealing because I've never had it. Would I really enjoy peace? Or would I grow bored and restless in three days? I get fidgety when we go too long between assignments. How would I cope with never having an assignment again?"

"I hear kids keep you busy," he said, and she could see his very teasing smile.

"Yes. Because I'm extremely maternal."

"You take pretty good care of me," he replied.

She waved a hand. "That's different. You aren't small and you're not entirely helpless. You drool slightly less, too."

He chuckled, and then he was quiet. They sat there listening to the sounds of the wheels on the tracks and the steam engine chugging away. "There is a reason Thor assumed we were sharing a room."

Nat stilled. She stared at her feet in his lap, unable to look at his face. She hadn't been under the impression that he didn't feel it. But they had never spoken of it. Years they'd been running around together and neither of them had ever said anything out loud. Not really. It just wasn't done. But now, there it was, sitting between them. She sighed and said quietly, "Coulson has noticed, too."

He sighed. "As has Fury." He picked up her foot and gently set it on his knee. She had on the button boots, and not the lace-up boots, because they were part of her Proper Lady outfit and they'd been going to Stark's. There had been no time to change. And she hated, _hated_ the tiny, fiddly little buttons. So just like he had God-knows how many times before, he began to undo them for her, one by one. "Though that's not at all new."

It always amazed her how quickly he could work the buttons out of the loops. To look at him, she would have expected him to be big and lumbering. But, when not on a ship, he was the most nimble man she knew. "Coulson disapproves. He told me once it would get one or both of us killed."

"There's some logic to that," he said. He finished the buttons, and eased the boot off. It was very, very nice to stretch her toes out. He reached over to unbutton the other one. "Certainly isn't anyone else I'd take a bullet for."

Maybe it was the late hour, or the rocking of the train lulling her. Or the knuckle he ran up the sole of her foot, stretching it pleasantly. Maybe she was just finally willing to talk about it. But she heard herself say, "The feeling is mutual."

The other boot hit the floor with a thud. "Maybe it balances out. If I stop your bullet or you mine. . . same number of dead people as if we'd been alone." 

She stretched her other foot, resting it on his knee. "It's not exactly my first choice."

He put her legs back on the bench, and bent over to pull off his boots. They had neither buttons, nor laces. She envied the efficiency. Then he stretched out, propping his feet on the seat beside her that Rogers had vacated. He put her legs back over his and arranged her skirt over them—probably for warmth. 

And then sometimes she was surprised there was anyone who spent more than five minutes with them who didn't think they were a couple. "I don't need to die in a bed. I just don't want to die alone. So I suppose I would be okay with that." He looked up. "I don't think they're looking out for us in their concern anyway. They're looking out for their op."

If they were going to continue to talk about this she was going to need something to do with her hands. So she rested one on his foot and rubbed it through the scratchy wool of his sock. "I don't understand. Other partners must become protective of each other. It is part of the point of having a partner. Why my former employers kept us separate. Human beings make connections. Even humans like us."

"Because we are opposite genders. They see sex everywhere, and yet are terrified of it." He was quiet, and she could see him considering his words. "It isn't about protection, or attachment. It's about distraction. It's about lust." Then, like he often did when he was talking about something that made them uncomfortable, he added something to make her laugh, to lighten the topic if one of them wanted. "Can't imagine that's a big problem for Stark and Banner." 

If that were true it just proved the bosses didn't understand her at all. Lust was easy. If it was just lust they would have solved this ages ago. No, the real problem, for her, at least, was the emotion. The connection. She didn't grow attached to people, not the way she was with Clint. Oh, she liked people, enjoyed their company. Stark was funny and Banner and Rogers were oddly sweet, in their ways. But Clint. . . Clint took her shoes off for her. She brought him tea and rubbed his back when he was sea sick. There was far more to what she felt for him the lust or partnership.

That was too much to say, though. Too big a truth to speak out loud. So instead she took his out. "Stark and Rogers, though. That I could see."

Clint made a face, and then shook his head. "Nobody who has nine children in fifteen years has any sort of side business, anyway."

"That's a very good point." Nat shook her head. "No wonder he has such large houses, with the brood they're growing."

He chuckled, and rubbed one of her ankles. "You know, we shouldn't get in trouble for things we're not even doing. You want me to say something to Coulson?"

She shrugged. "It was just one comment, months ago. He glares sometimes but that's just. . . him. It's probably best to let it lie."

"Back in the Jack the Ripper days, Fury was convinced you would use sex to manipulate any man you were paired with, but that you couldn't be left running about on your own—since you were, of course, a woman. I assumed he'd mostly forgotten about it until he brought it up when we were in DC. I believe I told him Coulson was a chaperone worthy of a London dowager." They could talk about it, sort of, as long as they weren't talking about it seriously. They'd built their relationship a lot of rules.

"That does explain why he gets dragged along on so many of our assignments." She smiled and tilted her head. "I've always thought you were rather immune to my charms."

"You're a consummate actress, but it is an act. And you're not a long-con kind of girl. The persona starts from the beginning to work, and my first impression of you remained fixed as someone I thought I was most likely going to have a fairly vicious knife fight to the death with." He grinned. "Fury didn't buy it. Which probably means your charms would work on him." 

That was something she had never doubted. "I could have all his secrets, if I wanted them," she confirmed. "Probably why he doesn't like me that much."

"Maybe he's mad you didn't seduce me so he'll never get his gold."

She moved her hand to his other foot, starting to rub it as she had the first. "What gold?"

"I've never told you about that?" He looked a little embarrassed, which was. . . intriguing. "I guess not. When I brought you on, I told him I'd vouch for you. . . and put up collateral."

"What kind of collateral?" She dug her knuckle into the arch of his foot, drawing it up to his toes. He wasn't immune to _all_ her tricks.

She heard him inhale. "Ah, a written confession to being the famous Bow & Arrow Bandit who robbed a train with a haul of gold coins being shipped east from the San Francisco Mint, and the location of where I'd hidden the actual gold. The US government would certainly hang me if they caught me, so I quite literally stuck my neck out for you."

Christ, Fury could be such an ass sometimes. "If you ever want to track down that piece of paper and burn it, I'm up for a covert mission."

He waved a hand. "It's not that big a deal. If Fury wanted me dead, he'd just shoot me. If he wanted me in jail or hung, he'd sic the Brits on me. The confession was a red herring so he could pretend it was about righteousness or. . .something other than a giant pile of gold."

She took his big toe between her first and second fingers and tugged, then moved to the next toe. "Have you moved the gold since?"

The rather insulted look on his face pleased her. "Of course."

Another tug on his toe. "Will you tell me where it is?"

He pulled his feet down and sat up so he could lean forward. He watched her for a moment, and she held his gaze. "Yes," he said finally. "If you outlive me, I'd want you to have it."

Her first thought was that if he was dead then no amount of gold in the world would make a damn bit of difference to her. She wasn't sure how to properly articulate that, so she just nodded. "I'm afraid I don't have any treasure trove to leave you if the reverse happens."

It wasn't often that you knew someone well enough to be able to see what they were thinking on their face—but she watched the exact same train of thought move over his features, before he looked away and swallowed. But all he said was, "I would still have mine, I suppose."

She considered making a joke. Possibly something about leaving him all her dresses. Instead she reached out and took his hand. "Again. It's not my first choice. Either scenario."

He turned his hand, moving it until their palms splayed out, pressed together. His hand dwarfed hers. She moved hers a little to the right, and one by one their fingers folded and laced together. He ran his thumb along hers. "I will do my best to stay alive if you will."

It was suddenly very hard to breathe, let alone talk. But she managed a soft, "I promise, _moi pitchka_."

For a moment, she was sure he would tug on her hand. To pull her over there with him. For a moment, she wished he would. But they were on a train full of people, and in any case, that way lay dragons.

His hand opened and she cleared her throat, feeling oddly warm. "We should get some sleep. Tomorrow might be a very interesting day."

"You go. I won't be able to sleep if I lay down."

She made a little sympathetic noise and stood, gathering up her boots. She hesitated, then dropped a light kiss on top of his head. "Goodnight, Clint."

He reached up and caught her wrist, and then squeezed her hand. "Goodnight, honey." She held his gaze a moment, the air heavy between them. Then he slowly let her hand go and she turned and walked to her bunk.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Upon Disembarking the Train, We Encounter The Norse God of Annoying Younger Brothers_


	8. Upon Disembarking the Train, We Encounter The Norse God of Annoying Younger Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, there is a head cold ravaging Nyx's house so she got a little behind on editing. Caught up now :)

_New Orleans, Louisiana_

 

Clint discovered Stark had a poor sense of time estimation, for there turned out to be another full day on the train. It was late and dark when they finally rolled into their destination. There were still things to deal with—getting the pullman and boxcar uncoupled, securing or moving the suit, etc. Clint didn't care, as it wasn't his department. He'd gotten a carriage and offered to share it with anyone who didn't feel like standing around a dark train station watching Stark and Thor argue over who needed less sleep. 

Now it was morning, and a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed had made him feel like a new person. He went out onto his little balcony with an iron railing and looked down at the street. This would be a fantastic place to shoot from. He could see the entire street.

He ducked back in, and rapped on the door that connected his and Nat's rooms. A habit born of their tendency to travel as a fake married couple while on ops, they nearly always asked for a door everywhere. Very useful for security and secrecy.

Of course, she'd been up since dawn. He was pretty certain of that. The knock was more of a notification of his being awake than anything else. He opened the door when she responded and found her dressed and pinning her hair up. Nat had a love hate relationship with her hair. The hate seemed to mostly come when she was trying to get it to behave. 

She glanced at him in the mirror. "You look better then you have in a week."

He came into the room, holding his hand out for the hairpins so he could fix the back. He didn't really care of the others thought or assumed they were sleeping together. The fact that he had developed a talent for wielding hairpins was something he had every intention of taking to his grave. "I think this is the first day in a week I haven't been on some conveyance or other." 

She sat patiently as he worked. "It's a pretty city. Smells nice." Nat had a nose like a cat. How a city smelled was important to her.

"It doesn't smell nice in August," he commented around the pin he held in his teeth.

"I can respect cities that have only seasonal appeal." He slid the last pin in and she lifted a hand to check it. "You are a master."

"In this town, you may remit payment in bourbon."

She stood and smiled, her soft, real one. "I will do my best to acquire some for you."

He rested his hand on the back of her neck, for a heartbeat longer than he probably should. Then he stepped back and left her to dig about in vanity case and look for something. "The balcony is an excellent perch, should our prey come by the hotel."

That made her chuckle a little. "I think we're going to them. Coulson had to talk Thor out of knocking down their door last night. I doubt he'll make it much past breakfast this morning." 

"He wanted to fly over here yesterday morning. During the stop in Atlanta. Stark decided he wanted to purchase his own full sized train, and went to find a telephone to. . . I don't know, order one from the Sears & Roebuck catalog? Thor wanted to come 'gather' intel. In his red cape."

Apparently, she'd been hunting for her bracelet. She made a little noise of triumph when she found it and clamped it on her wrist. He knew it hid a garrote and a throwing knife. "Because that wouldn't tip off his brother and send them to ground."

"I told him to let us do our jobs, please." He turned back toward the connecting door. "I'm going to go shave. Go ahead and go down to breakfast and make sure they're not fighting with each other or charging off in different directions."

She snapped a salute. "I will herd the cats until you arrive," she said in her most serious Russian voice. He grinned, and went back into his room.

Ten minutes later he joined the rest of them in the private dining room. Nat had saved him a seat and made him a plate of food. Apparently, she had decided she didn't care about suspicions and would be acting as if the rest of them weren't there.

"Flying through the front door with your hammer is not a plan of attack," Coulson was saying, sounding tired. "We don't even know if he still has the stone."

"If he doesn't then I definitely would prefer to bash the door in with my hammer," Thor replied.

"I have a battering ram attachment for the suit," Stark offered. "It's on the train."

"For God's sake, it's not 1420," Rogers exclaimed.

"How would you know?" Stark quipped back.

Clint found himself literally unable to keep himself from adding, "In 1420 they'd have started with a hail of arrows." Nat kicked him under the table. They didn't need help. So he went back to his food, leaving the three of them to dick-swing while Coulson attempted to mediate. Banner was sitting at the other end of the table, also eating and clearly staying out of it.

They were going in circles and Clint was seriously considering just sneaking out with Nat and maybe Banner when she spoke up in her calmest, most reasonable voice. "Why don't we just knock?"

The others all turned to look at her and she sipped her coffee. "Last time they had any number of chances to kill us and they didn't. They served us wine and told us their life story. You're all jumping right to raze the house and salt the earth. Being polite costs us nothing."

They all stared. Finally Coulson said, "They did seem fond of you."

"Nat and I will go," Clint said, before anyone else could pipe up. He really didn't want to go, because he hated talking to people. He'd much rather watch from a distance with good aim. It would make tremendously more sense to send, say, Rogers, who had the benefit of his super-human strength, and whom they didn't know. But Loki was still dangerous, and his gut said he wanted to keep his eyes on her.

Maybe this was what Coulson had been talking about when he said they'd get themselves killed.

"I'm not certain I—" Thor started to say.

Nat cut him off, standing. "If we're not in touch in an hour you can all come swoop in and save us. But my gut is telling me we should use a soft touch here." She glanced at Coulson. "That is why you keep me around."

Coulson turned up his hands in a gesture of concession. "I'll come, too," Banner piped up. "I'm unremarkable and won't draw attention."

"If there's trouble—" Thor started again, clearly unconvinced.

Banner looked at him over the top of his glasses, and fixed Thor with a very level stare. "The Other One will win. Don't you worry about that."

"Thank you, Dr. Banner," Nat said. "We can go whenever you're ready."

"Now. Now is good."

Stark stood up. "I'll get the armor in a carriage and we'll find somewhere to be."

"At a discreet distance," Coulson added, the tinge of warning in his voice making Clint smile. Nat was excellent at obtaining cooperation.

"We'll leave you to it, then," he said, pulling out Nat's chair for her. "Doc?"

Banner hopped up, wiping his mouth quickly before tossing his napkin on the table. They fell into step behind Nat as they left the dining room, then the hotel. 

When they were out on the street Banner gave Nat a wide grin. "You're very good. I think in the end Coulson thought it was his idea."

"That is, in fact, why she is the best."

"If I had to listen to any more cock measuring I was going to start cutting them off," she said serenely, eliciting a bark of laughter from Banner.

"Just make sure you turn on your charm," Banner said. "I hate letting the Other One out."

*

The carriage they hired took them to the Garden District, rolling past streets of elegant mansions. Nat would have expected them to set up shop in some very old colonial building in the French Quarter, or perhaps construct themselves a castle somewhere. But the house at the address they had was clearly brand new, quite pretty, and nowhere near as ostentatious as its neighbors. It was a surprisingly restrained Queen Anne with an enormous porch, painted white with green trim.

"What is it with these people and the green?" Clint asked as they went up the cobblestone walk.

"Gotta be an Asgardian thing," Nat said. "Thor seems to really like red."

"Green is perfectly nice color," Banner commented. "I have to say, this place does not look particularly sinister. I was hoping there would at least be turrets."

"The last one had turrets. Though come to think of it, it wasn't all that sinister. Just huge." She rang the bell. "This is downright understated for them."

The door was opened by a maid in a crisp uniform. "May I help you?"

"Is your mistress accepting visitors?" Nat asked. Syn seemed to generally be the easier sell.

The girl bobbed a little curtsy. "Her ladyship is in the garden, ma'am." She held the door for them to enter, then led them deeper into the house. They followed the maid straight out the back of the house. A path led to the garden, where she could see Syn sitting under a trellis covered in vines. In the summer it was probably full of flowers, but at the moment it let quite a bit of sun through. 

The sorceress looked up as they approached. She was in a simple day dress—green, of course—with a beautifully embroidered black shawl tossed over her shoulders. There was an extremely thick leather bound book in her lap. Surprise and concern flickered over her face when she saw them, before being smoothed away into a smile. "Miss Romanova, Mr. Barton. This is a surprise."

"Hello. This is Dr. Banner, another member of my team." She looked over and Banner had already wandered off a bit, looking at the garden's exotic plants. Nat shrugged and sat in the chair that Syn beckoned to. "There's something I was hoping to discuss with you."

"Of course." Syn turned to the maid. "Thank you. Could you bring some tea? No rush." The maid dipped another curtsy and hurried up the path. The smile slid off Syn's face and she looked back at Nat. "What's he done now?"

Nat fought the urge to smile at that. Clearly, she knew her husband well. "This is about the trip the two of you made to an island called Nantucket sometime in the last few years."

The other woman glanced away, looking into a middle distance, obviously trying to remember. "East coast?" Clint added. "Probably pretty cold."

"Oh! Oh, yes. There was a fisherman's wife having twins. I offered my services." A line appeared between her brows and she looked back at them again. "We were only there a couple days. He didn't hurt anyone, that I recall."

"No, but he did take something. An Asgardian artifact with some great and very dangerous powers."

"Yes. The Bride Stone. But he sold that as soon as he acquired it. Obviously, it was of no use to us."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that thing is in human hands?" Clint asked from wherever he was hovering behind her. She gave him a quelling look. Getting the other woman's dander up wasn't going to help anyone.

There was a subtle change in Syn's posture when Nat looked back at her. Still, her temper was obviously far longer then Loki's. Her voice was still mostly pleasant when she spoke. "The man we sold it to wanted to build an army. Of men. The stone doesn't work on men, it was designed for brides. Unless the chauvinistic pig suddenly has an epiphany—unlikely—it's harmless."

"That. . .does explain some things." Nat smiled, and smoothed her skirt. "However. There does seem to be a very narrow window of exposure that, if hit, will work. It will give a man Asgardian strength—and, we think, lifespan. We know one such man. We also know that when men miss that window, they die a particularly painful death."

The line appeared between Syn's brows again and she looked away. "There was no mention of that in the histories. Damn." She put her book to one side, shifting forward. "Why are you coming to look for it now?"

She considered not revealing that particular detail, but remembered this woman could see through lies, so there wasn't much of a point in trying. "Thor came looking for it."

Syn froze. Nat had never seen anyone other than her or Clint stay that still. "Thor is in town? Where?"

Not answering wasn't technically lying. "He wanted to come kick in your door."

"By the realms," she muttered. Nat had a feeling that was a stronger curse then it sounded. "Loki's in town, hunting down a supposed magical amulet. If they see each other without someone to keep them in line. . ." She tossed her hands in the air as if describing an explosion.

Nat and Clint exchanged a look. "Where—exactly—in town would he happen to be?" Nat asked.

*

Steve had seem a lot of fist fights in his life. Sometimes it was just the only way to properly settle a problem, especially in close quarters like a ship. Hell, half the time the opponents ended up drinking buddies by the end of it.

He had never seen a fist fight that sent one participant through a wall. And he had _certainly_ never seen a guy sent through a wall get back up and keep swinging. At least it had been a garden wall and not someone’s house.  
 They had been sitting in the carriage, minding their own business, waiting for Romanova and the men to get back from their meeting. Stark had been keeping up a running patter of nonsense that Steve had tuned out about halfway through, watching people pass on the street. He spotted the well dressed guy with dark hair about an instant before Thor slammed through the carriage door and tackled him.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Stark slammed his faceplate down and followed Thor, taking the carriage door off because his armor was wider than the opening. Steve was then obligated to get out, and the two of them became preoccupied by the task of herding the rapidly developing crowd out of harm’s way, while Thor and his brother tore up Bourbon Street.

"This was exactly the sort of thing you were _not_ supposed to do!" Thor was bellowing. Steve didn't hear Loki's response, but he threw something at Thor. Thor ducked, and whatever it was hit Stark in the back of the head with a loud clank. Stark turned, and the rattle of the machine gun on his shoulder firing was deafening. It didn't seem to dent Loki, but now the crowd was in full panic.

Steve was able to start herding them away from the fight, warning people to stay inside. He was fairly certain Coulson was going to kill them all for this mess. When most of the civilians were out of the way (or at least running in the right direction) he caught Stark's arm. "I"m pretty sure we're supposed to be stopping them, not helping destroy things."

"He'll stop if he's dead," Stark shot back.

"Thor attacked _him_ ," Steve pointed out. Then he yanked Tony out of the way of another piece of debris. "This is insane."

"I could aim at Thor." 

They were wrestling in the street now. Thor tossed Loki, and when Loki came back up he now had a pair of daggers. Thor glared angrily, and held his hand out. His hammer came flying in from behind them, whizzing past Steve's ear. 

All right. _Now_ they had a problem.

Beside him, Stark's suit clanked as a small metal arm fitted a new belt of bullets into the machine gun. 

Loki crouched as Thor raised his hammer. He swung it towards his brother with what looked like a great deal of force behind it.

Only to have it bounce off what looked like a shield made of shimmering gold light.  
 "Both of you stop it this _instant_."

Steve and Tony turned to see Romanova, Barton, Banner and a strange woman in a very expensive looking green gown standing behind them on the empty street. The woman had a hand flung out like she'd thrown something.

The woman marched towards them. Loki pointed a finger at Thor. "Dear heart, I was just walking down the street and suddenly he leapt upon me."

"Lady Syn, I don't think you under—" Thor cut off when she reached them, apparently cowed by whatever look she was giving him.

"Why can't the two of you ever greet each other civilly? You're _princes_ for Yggdrasil's sake. Would it kill you to act like it?"

"But—"

"No." She pointed at Loki. "Knives."

He grimaced and tucked his daggers into his coat and showed her his empty hands.

She turned to Thor. "If you lift that hammer at him again I will personally blast you into the bayou, understood?" He nodded, hooking the strap around his wrist and letting the weapon hang idle. "Thank you," she said, tone softer. "Now that it's out of your system let's talk with your friends."

Stark was still pointing the machine gun at them. Barton had scaled one of the balconies overhanging the street and was aiming an arrow at them. And from behind him, Steve heard Coulson's voice. "What in hell?"

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _In Which Details are Revealed, and an Urgent Departure is Warranted_


	9. In Which Details are Revealed, and an Urgent Departure is Warranted

"Why is it that my wife and I can set ourselves up somewhere pleasant, integrate ourselves into the community. . . Then _you people_ come and ruin everything. And you call us evil."

Nat had to admit, Loki had a bit of a point, though she wasn't sure they deserved that snotty of a tone. Thor and Coulson paused their argument to glare at him and Syn put a warning hand on his arm.

They'd all retreated to the hotel for explanations and lectures. Coulson seemed to be running out of steam—finally—and now it was time to figure out what happened next.

"All right," Coulson said. "Who, exactly, did you sell the Bride Stone _to_?"

Loki glared at the hand Syn had on his arm, then looked up at her face. She shook her head, he grimaced, she shook her head again, with emphasis. Their silent conversation ended with her putting a second hand on his arm and raising an eyebrow, like she was daring him to do something.

He looked very reluctant when he muttered, "The King of Belgium."

Start stood up, looking as angry as Nat had ever seen him. "I'm going to go get my armor. And then I am going to come back and kill him," he said, his voice clipped.

"Who is this King of Belgium?" Thor asked, looking warily at Stark. No, not Stark—at Banner, who'd also stood up. This could conceivably go very sideways, very quickly.

"Leopold the second," Coulson said. "He has a colony on Africa that is a house of horrors—and I say that in the context of the general terrible conditions in any colonial economy. Murder, slavery, rape, mutilation for sport. It's not as widely known as you'd think, and Shield has an entire division devoted to trying to rein it it without Britain actually starting a war, but. . ." He looked up at Stark and Banner. "The sheer size has overwhelmed our resources."

"And that was before someone gave them a way to make their own Asgardians," Stark said. Nat could see Banner breathing through his nose, and wondered if she should get up and try to convince him to step out of the room. The Other One would not help this conversation one bit.

"It's not supposed to do anything to men!" Loki said, gesturing with the arm Syn wasn't holding. "There are no records of men using it. I assumed it would be inert. Most artifacts are when used by someone who doesn't know what the Hel they're doing. I thought the bloodthirsty fool would chase his tail with a useless trinket while I lightened his coffers." He looked at Thor. "Brother, you know me. You know I can't lie if she's touching me. I have made my share of mistakes but I don't actually seek out the deaths of unknown innocents. If nothing else she'd never forgive me." That with a gesture at Syn, who was gripping his arm so hard her knuckles were white. "It was a trick. I meant no harm to anyone but the king."

Thor rubbed the back of his neck. "Sometimes your tricks have consequences."

"So let's go get it back," Steve said. They all looked at him. "Or we could sit here and yell at him more. I guess that works, too."

"What do we do with him?" Stark asked.

"We take him with us. He knows the guy and has magic. Am I the only one who thinks that might be useful?"

"If you want our help you have it," Syn said quietly. Loki pressed his mouth into a thin line but didn't contradict her. Nat continued to be fascinated by their dynamic.

"Can we even trust him?" Stark asked, which seemed to spawn another round of arguing between him, Steve, Thor, and Coulson. 

Nat could hear someone knocking on the suite door, so she got up to answer it. She only opened it a crack.

"I have an urgent telegram for Mr. Stark," the bellhop on the other side said.

She held out her hand and he gave it to her after a brief hesitation. She closed the door on him and went over to Stark, smacking his arm to get his attention. "You have a telegram."

He took it without even pausing his argument and glanced down at it. Then the stopped talking. She watched his face change, fear and grief clouding his features. Whatever was on that telegram was very bad.

"I'm going back to New York," he said, interrupting everyone. "Train leaves in an hour. Be on it or find your own way back." He turned without another word and practically sprinted out of the room.

They all stared at each other in silence. Finally Coulson spoke up. "You heard him, pack up and get to the station. You two." He pointed at Loki and Syn. "I had better see you on that train or I unleash the big guns on you. Got it?"

The couple looked at each other and Nat wondered who was arguing what in this silent conversation. Finally they looked back at Coulson and nodded, almost in unison. "We'll be there," Loki said, voice quiet and raspy.

Packing happened with great haste, and they made the train. Nat thought Coulson might have talked to Stark, but no one really knew what was going on. He locked himself in the boxcar, and wouldn't even let Banner in there. Which also meant—since they couldn't pass through the boxcar—that everyone was stuck, all together, in the Pullman. The entire trip. Thor huddled in one corner with his brother and sister-in-law, discussing and arguing at very low volume. Everyone else found themselves something quiet to do, but the silence was oppressive.

In the morning, Clint came and sat next to her. "I'm going to climb over the top of the boxcar so I can visit the rest of the train. You want to come?" 

"Hell yes," she said immediately. "I was about to jump anyway. Your way is at least productive."

"You'll be okay in the skirt?" he asked. A question he had asked her so often it had become a joke. Nat could climb mountains in a skirt if she had to.

"I'll manage," she replied, as she always did. "Let's go."

They managed to get over the top of the boxcar without getting blown off the train, though it decimated her hair. She could feel it fall around her shoulders when they finally made it to the dining car on the other side.

"You have any hair pins?" she teased, pushing it off her face.

He grinned at her, apparently enjoying whatever mess it looked like. "I do not." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Turn, I can at least tie it back."

She turned obediently and felt him gather the mass of curls up. She didn't remember when she'd started letting him mess with her hair, or when he'd become so good at it. It was just one of a long list of skills they'd gained for each other.

When he was done, he offered her his arm. The dining car was surprisingly empty. In fact, there was only one table occupied.

Stark was sitting here, drinking a bottle of whiskey. Nat and Clint exchanged a look. He gestured towards Stark with his chin, obviously suggesting she go do her thing on him. She gave a little head shake, because that wasn't really the best of ideas and besides, if he wanted to talk he would have. Clint shrugged as if to say "What could it hurt? Not like he'll throw us off the train."

Nat sighed and went over to sit across from Stark. "What did the telegram say?" she asked quietly.

He looked up in surprise, like he hadn't noticed her sit. He inhaled slowly, and exhaled slowly. He took another drink. "My son is dying."

There were all manner of things she could or should say to that. What came out was, "Which one?"

He took another drink. "I imagine like the rest of them you think I can't tell them apart. They're just an indiscriminate mass of noise and mess that multiply aimlessly because I can't keep my pants buttoned."

"No. _I_ can't tell them apart because when I visit they are a blur of chaos and activity and frankly frighten me a little bit. But they wouldn't be like that if they didn't have a father who adored them enough to let them be children." She paused. "I don't know if there's anyone on this team who was allowed to be a child the way your kids are. And I know you're never really sure how many there are but I also know you can list off their names and birthdays without stopping to think. So. Which son is in trouble?"

He looked away. "Charlie. He's six. You've met him, actually. He tried to peep under your skirt." He swallowed. "Actually, if there are any of my sons people are likely to remember, it's almost certainly him. Only one with red hair. And he's always into everything." His voice cracked on the last word, and he reached for the bottle.

Nat glanced over at Clint who looked like he might cry or vomit. She reached across the table to touch Stark's hand. He twitched a little, but didn't pull away. "I'm sorry, Tony."

"I told the conductor I'd give him a million dollars to blow through the rest of the stops. I just—just want to see him. He fell out of a window and they don't know how long—" he cut off, like he couldn't finish the sentence.

She squeezed his hand. "You will. We'll get you there."

Clint stood up, walking to the back of the car. She turned in time to see him go through the vestibule and unceremoniously kick through the door to the boxcar. 

"Death makes people uncomfortable," Stark said.

"We're used to being in charge of it," she said. "Clint and I aren't used to being helpless."

"Ditto," Stark muttered. He held the bottle out to her, and she took a drink from it. A few moments later, he looked up and frowned at something over her shoulder. She turned to see Clint coming back up the aisle, Thor behind him. Thor was half dressed, as though he'd been literally dragged out of his bunk.

When they reached the table, Clint reached over and took the whiskey bottle. "You should sober up. He's going to fly you home."

Stark stared up at them, blinking rapidly. "Seriously."

"I wish you had said something sooner," Thor rumbled. "It might not be the most pleasant journey, but you will be home quickly."

"Sharing often provides surprising help," Nat said gently.

Stark stood up. He clapped Clint on the shoulder. " _Thank_ you." He looked at Thor. "What are we waiting for?"

"We'll be there as soon as we can," Nat told him. Stark gave her a little smile as he and Thor went to the box car. They opened the door and after spinning the hammer a few times they were gone.

Nat helped Clint haul the door shut. "There's our good deed of the day."

They went back through the boxcar—which was trashed, as if Stark had been throwing things around—toward the Pullman. "Poor kid."

She sighed "We did all we could do."

By the afternoon, the rest of the men from their team had gone up to the smoking car to do whatever it was men did in smoking cars, leaving her alone in the Pullman's lounge with Syn and Loki. They were each reading very thick books, an activity that seemed as at-odds with her impression of them as the pretty house in New Orleans.

After a long period of silence broken only by the flutter of pages turning Syn asked, "What was wrong with Mr. Stark?"

Nat sighed sadly. "His little boy is on his deathbed. Thor flew him home so he could be there in time to say goodbye."

The other woman's hand stopped mid page turn and she looked up at her. "Injury or illness?"

"I believe he said he fell out of a window. He didn't say how high, but clearly the injury was very grave. Though I suppose it could be subsequent infection from a minor injury. That's pretty common for humans. To be honest I didn't ask too many details."

Syn cast a helpless look at Loki. "I can't teleport somewhere I've never been," he said without looking up from his book. "You'll have to wait and get there the human way."

"But the child—"

He looked up then and his face was surprisingly gentle. "I'm sorry, dear heart. I have my limits."

Nat wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but she said, "I'm not sure the Starks will want guests at this time."

Syn looked back at her. "I can help. If he's alive I can heal him."

She stared at the other woman. "You can _heal_ people?"

"Of injury, yes. I can't do anything for illness. And once someone is dead they're beyond my help."

Nat shook her head. "Why wouldn't Thor have said something?"

Loki closed his book with a snap. "I don't think he knows she can do it. It's not a common power on Asgard. We're far sturdier then the people of other realms. Our healers work with technology more then magic." He indicated Syn with a hand. "She's from Alfheim. Magic runs strong there and they're fragile enough to need natural healers."

"Jesus," Nat breathed. "We need this train to go faster."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _And Now, a Miracle Occurs. If You Believe in Such Things_


	10. And Now, a Miracle Occurs. If You Believe in Such Things

_New York City_

It had been a very long time since Clint had stolen a carriage. Sometimes he'd robbed a stagecoach that was mostly mail—he'd kick out the driver and haul it off, to go through for valuables later. But it was wasteful and a lot of work, so he didn't bother.

He was, however, still good at it. It was one of those open buggies with room for two passengers. He'd herded Syn and Loki into the back, shoved the driver off the seat, pulled Nat up next to him and took off before Coulson could finish yelling at him from the curb as to what the hell he was doing. They took off up the street away from Grand Central without looking back. He yelled at people to get out of the way as they tore up Park Ave. It wouldn't do to run anyone over.

It was a record breaking run to Stark's house. He probably would have been more cautious if his passengers hadn't been a demi-god impervious to injury and a woman who could heal people. He pulled up in front of the Stark mansion and they all piled out of the carriage.

"Any idea how you're going to convince Stark to let her near his kid?" he asked Nat as they headed up to the house.

She shrugged, glancing back at the couple following them. "Ask nicely?"

Clint knocked on the door. Jarvis answered, and looked at them askance. He hoped the lack of a black arm band indicated Charlie was still alive. "Mr. and Mrs. Stark are not receiving."

Before he could say anything, they heard Stark's voice from somewhere behind Jarvis. It sounded hoarse, like he'd been shouting. Or maybe crying. "If that's Romanova, let her in."

The butler stepped back, letting them into the foyer. Stark was at the foot of the stairs. "Natasha. I was hoping—He wanted to see the pretty lady."

An absolutely indescribable expression passed over Nat's face. Clint had to resist reaching out to her. She stepped forward and took Stark's hands. "You trust me?" she asked.

He looked down at her for a moment, and nodded. 

Nat smiled and glanced back at the rest of them. Syn stepped forward and Nat looked back at Stark. "You need to show her where Charlie is. Right now. She can help him."

He didn't even hesitate. Desperation was a very powerful emotion. He waved at them and started up the stairs. Loki followed Syn, so Clint followed, too. Neither of them were necessary, but someone ought to keep an eye on him.

Stark took them upstairs, to a huge bedroom that was clearly his. The room was full of the other children, from a girl in her teens to a very small baby in the arms of a nanny. In the middle of the big carved wooden bed was Mrs. Stark, with a red-haired boy tucked against her. He was very still, but his eyes were open. She was rocking him a little and singing to him.

Stark went to the side of the bed, Syn at his heels. "Pepper," he said quietly. "I know this sounds crazy. But this woman can help."

Syn put a knee up on the bed and reached for Charlie. Mrs. Stark hesitated, gathering him closer. Before Stark could say anything Syn spoke softly, "Please. Just for a moment."

Mrs. Stark let the other woman take her son. Syn gathered him up on her lap. "Hi, Charlie," she said quietly, settling a hand under his neck and placing the other on his chest. "I'm Syn." 

There was a heartbeat while everyone seemed to hold their breath, then Syn's hands started to glow with a gold light that seeped into Charlie's little body, growing to surround him. It got stronger, until it was almost blinding, and then faded. He took a deep breath, and then sat up. "Mama! I can feel my feet!"

Mrs. Stark took a shuddery breath, and then burst into tears. She reached out for him, hauling him off of Syn's lap and into hers, hands flying everywhere as if to inspect him for injury. He wiggled all over the place, demonstrating that he seemed to feel absolutely fine.

Stark clambered over to them, wrapping both of them in his arm. Syn slipped off the bed silently. Clint thought she might have wobbled a bit, but Loki was at her side in an instant, arm around her waist. She leaned into his side, watching the family with a watery smile.

Clint felt Nat slide her hand into his, and he laced their fingers together. So they were in public. At this moment, he didn't care—and no one was looking at them anyway. He glanced over at her to catch her wiping her eyes with her other hand. Probably best to pretend he didn't see that.

The rest of the kids had started to pile on the bed. Loki whispered something in Syn's ear and they started for the door. That was probably a good idea. Stark could track them down when the family celebration was over. He tugged Nat's hand and glanced at the door. She nodded and they followed the other two.

Jarvis got them settled in a parlor in time for the rest of the team to show up demanding answers. Loki seemed uninterested in being interrogated and Syn was half asleep on his shoulder so that left Clint and Nat trying to explain one of the five weirdest things he'd ever seen.

They were still in the parlor when Stark came downstairs. He looked exhausted, and his eyes were red, but he was grinning as wide as possible. He marched in and sat down on the coffee table in front of Syn and Loki. "Is she all right?"

Loki dropped a kiss on top of her head, which was quite possibly the most human thing Clint had ever seen him do. "Healing like that usually takes time," he said. "She sprinted when she should have walked."

Syn glanced up at him. "Shush." She smiled at Stark. "I'm fine. Nothing a nap and a large meal won't fix."

"I will get you any food you want. I will get you all the food in New York." He leaned back and bellowed, "Jarvis!"

The butler appeared, serene as ever. Syn gave her dinner order almost shyly, though she did think to demand something with chocolate. Clint was starting to wonder how common gratitude for healing was in other realms if she was this thrown by Stark's exuberance. Of course, exuberant Stark was kind of intimidating at the best of times.

"I'm having a room made up now for your nap, and you are both welcome to stay with us for as long as you are in town."

"I don't—" Coulson started, and Stark turned to give him a look that could have peeled paint.

"You are all welcome to stay here," said a voice from the doorway—which turned out to be Mrs. Stark. She'd put herself together, though she looked as wrung out and red eyed as her husband. "We have plenty of space, and I know all of you helped—" Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. "Thank you."

Hiding mostly behind her skirt was Charlie, who was still in his nightshirt but seemed to feel right as rain. He let go of his mother and bolted into the room, stopping in front of Nat. "Hi, pretty lady."

She smiled widely at him, a look Clint rarely saw on her face. "Hi, Charlie." She slid off her chair, kneeling on the floor to wrap him in a hug. "It's really good to see you again." She sounded on the verge of tears again, but he was pretty sure everyone would pretend not to notice.

He hugged her, and Clint just made out the boy saying, "I knew you would help."

“Always," she promised. She leaned back and kissed the little boy's forehead. "You go get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded, though he went over to his father, who picked him up and set him on his knee while he talked to Loki and Syn.

The rest of them had become decidedly unnecessary. "I can show you all to your rooms," Mrs. Stark offered.

 Clint offered a hand to Nat and helped her up from the floor. Coulson still didn't look very happy about the turn of events, but he followed them out of the room, trailing Mrs. Stark. "We appreciate the hospitality," he said, good old British manners coming to the rescue. "I know it's been a hard few days."

"Your people saved my son's life. You could set up a hobo camp in my parlor if you want. This is you here, Mr. Coulson." She opened a door. "Captain Rogers, you are here." Another door. "This is for Your Highness, and I've placed your brother and Lady Syn in that room there. We wanted them to have a nice view. Dr. Banner knows where his room is, and the last door at the end of the hall is for you." She smiled at him and Nat.

One door, apparently. 

Nat glanced up at him and they both made a pointed effort not to look at Coulson. Then, apparently unwilling to further burden a woman who until recently thought she was going to lose her son, Nat turned to Mrs Stark and said, "Thank you," before pushing the door open and walking into the room.

He followed her—really, what else was there to do. "So. . . adding Stark to the list of people assuming things. I would not have expected endorsement from Mrs. Stark. Society lady, teenage daughters in the house. Wouldn't this be scandalous?"

"I think Mrs. Stark is the most open minded society lady on the planet." Nat sat on the enormous bed and flopped back onto it. "This is how we break Coulson. Aliens who heal children and you and I sharing a room. It's all spiraling out of his control."

He sat at the foot of the bed to unbutton her boots. "If we felt like having sex, I highly doubt separate bedrooms would deter us." He pulled one off, and then the other.

Her toes wiggled, just as they always did, and she stretched her arms out. "Look at the size of this bed. I think we've been in separate rooms smaller then this one bed."

"I agree." He kicked off his boots, then took off his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them on the floor. He stretched out on the bed. "God, it's so comfortable. And still." He turned on his side to look at her sprawled out like that. It was a very tempting sight—or it would be if he wasn't so exhausted.

She rolled her head so she could see his face. "I really—I hope we don't have to have some deep, emotional conversation about this. I wasn't trying to start something. I'm just tired and drained and I think we just technically witnessed a miracle. Seemed like a night I might like my best friend nearby."

That made him chuckle. "No, I am not up for any sort of anything, let alone the debate that would undoubtedly precede any sort of anything." He tucked her hair behind her ear. The truth was, with all the traveling and its unfortunate effect on him, he was pretty sure he'd had more energy during that one time he'd had cholera than he did right now. 

Her eyes drifted shut and she sighed. "Good. Because I'm really looking forward to sleep."

Before she could fall asleep, he nudged her shoulder. "Nat, roll over." She opened one eye, and raised its eyebrow at him with a grumpy sound. "Have a little faith." She closed her eyes again, but did turn over. He tugged her shirtwaist out of her skirt, and reached under her corset cover to undo the knot at her waist. He loosened the laces and she took a very deep breath, ending it with a contented sigh. He was pretty certain she was asleep by the time he pulled the shirtwaist back down.

He rubbed her back, and pulled up the quilt at the foot of the bed to cover them. It would probably get very cold at night. He kissed her hair. "Sweet dreams."

*

Nat woke to the sounds of Clint quietly getting dressed. She kept her eyes closed another minute for fear of getting an eyeful. She actually wouldn't mind an eyeful, in theory. But she was pretty sure it would lead to an awkward conversation of some sort. After avoiding it so handily the night before, she didn't want to blow it now.

She listened to him leave, then got up to change. A servant had brought her hastily-packed trunk in and she was able to change into a less constricting house dress. Her hair was a mess and she hadn't the energy to fight with it. She braided it, twisted the braid up and pinned it, then made her way down to breakfast.

The dining room was packed. She'd never known rich people to let their children eat meals in the formal dining room with their parents and guests, but was not at all surprised the Starks did. She was, however, surprised to find them all congregating at one end of the table, eating their food while watching Loki perform magic tricks.

Syn was across from him, in what looked like a nightgown and robe, hair loose, tucked up on her chair with a cup of coffee. Jarvis was hovering nearby with the pot. She smiled at Nat when she entered. "I told him not to make the first dragon. Now he can't eat in peace."

"They do seem to be enjoying themselves, and they've had a hard couple of days." At the other end of the table, Rogers, Coulson, Thor, and Banner were all reading newspapers. She didn't see either of the Starks.

"There's food on the buffet," Syn said, pointing to the side of the room. "And the coffee is delicious." She gestured to the men at the other end of the table. "They're being very boring."

"Maybe they're tired." Nat got up to get herself some food. While she was doing that Clint came into the room. She didn't know where he'd gone, but he had a acquired a newspaper. He smiled at her as he went by, grabbed a roll and some butter, and went to sit with the other men, opening the newspaper with a flick.

She shook her head and sank into the chair next to Syn. "How are you feeling?" It seemed the polite thing to ask someone who'd saved a life the night before.

The other woman smiled over her coffee cup. "I'm perfectly fine. It's been a long time since I did anything of that magnitude, I wasn't expecting to be so affected."

"It's a miraculous ability. You don't use it often?"

Syn sighed and set her coffee cup down on the table. "Do you know the first thing humans do when they see a miracle?" Nat shook her head and the other woman continued, "Ask for another. It's not exactly subtle, what I do. Word spreads quickly and people line up, begging for help. Loki likes to remind me I can't fix everyone. So I limit myself to midwifing; helping the mothers and stabilizing the babies. People are so distracted they don't notice."

She nodded. "It's a good idea. Lest you have some king or general who wants to enslave you to keep his army effectively indestructible."

It was apparent from her expression that similar concerns had already occurred to them. She gestured at Loki. "He frets. He didn't even want me to tell you all but. . . I have a soft spot for children."

"They are very loved children. The kind that will grow up to be something useful and good." Nat had no frame of reference for what it might be like growing up with parents who loved you and would teach you how to be a regular person. None of the people she worked with—that she knew of—had any familiarity with that experience, either. But she bet it was nice.

"Very loved," Syn agreed. "Mrs. Stark reminds me of my mother, a little. She had similar serenity in chaos." She reached for her coffee again and something in the way she held it made Nat think she wished it was something stronger.

"You had a lot of siblings?" Nat asked, cautiously. For whatever reason, Syn read as someone who'd had a childhood has unpleasant as Nat's. Or worse. One night, years ago, she and Clint got into a bottle of 100-proof moonshine and debated whose childhood had been more awful. He had the advantage of sheer brutality in the death of his family and general treatment—but conceded she won in the arena of psychological manipulation and utter lack of human dignity. She'd told him things that night that no one else on this earth knew about—except the man who had done them to her.

Suddenly, she too wanted to spike her coffee.

"Just one," Syn said quietly. "An older brother." She put her coffee cup on its saucer and turned it slowly. "The chaos was just a part of palace life." She glanced at Nat. "I was born a princess, on Alfheim."

"Not quite the enchanted fairy tale?"

That earned her a crooked, almost bitter smile. "Well, they're all dead now. So, no, not exactly."

Nat smiled back, similarly not with much joy. What else could you do, anyway? "You'll fit right in with this crowd."

Syn glanced down the table. "Dark histories a bit of a theme?"

"I imagine that's how you end up with this sort of career. I think Thor is the only one who still had any parents by ten or so. And I question the quality of a childhood that resulted in one brother trying to murder the other." 

They both glanced at Loki, who either hadn't heard her or was ignoring them. "That is a long story," Syn told her in an almost conspiratorial tone.

Before she could reply, the door opened and Mrs. Stark came in, wearing a pink housedress and carrying a very tiny baby. She glanced at Loki and the children, and then the men and the newspapers, before putting a couple of boiled eggs on a plate and coming over to sit with Syn and Nat. "Good morning, ladies." She looked from one to the other before saying, "Please be talking about something interesting."

"Horrible childhoods," Syn told her cheerfully. "It appears to be something this motley little bunch has in common."

"Oh, indeed," Mrs. Stark replied. She tucked the baby against her shoulder. Nat noticed this one, like Charlie, had red hair. "My mother was as fertile as I. I was eighth of eleven when my father died on the crossing over from Ireland. My oldest brother signed up for the Civil War to earn us some money, and promptly died. So my mother did what she had to." She was peeling an egg one handed, which was pretty impressive. She broke a piece off and chewed for a moment. "Da fathered six more children after his death. Pretty impressive feat, but who am I to argue with the county register?"

Nat and Syn stared at her a moment before bursting into laughter. That explained a great many things about Mrs. Stark. Including her being all right with Nat and Clint sharing a room the night before. The men looked up from their newspapers to glance at them, but fortunately, no one asked what was so funny.

"There was no food," she said. "Not enough, anyway. I worked in a thread factory until I saw a girl get her arm torn off. So I cut my hair off, claimed to be a boy, took up cleaning chimneys." Now that was really not something Nat could picture—this fancy woman as a small chimney sweep. "Perhaps not as awful as some—but it was hard. It was cold, and hungry, and alone."

"Alone is difficult," Syn said. "I could handle just about everything else, but I hated the loneliness."

"Tony had everything you could ever ask for—except family—and when I met him he was perhaps the loneliest person I'd ever met, a little boy alone in a giant mansion." The baby fussed and she bounced it a little.

"You've fixed that rather admirably," Nat said, glancing at the cluster of kids still enthralled with Loki. "None of them will ever be lonely if they don't want to be."

That made Mrs. Stark smile. "I certainly hope so. I need to go feed her, you are both welcome to join me in the morning room and get away from the noise if you like."

Nat got to her feet without hesitation, following Mrs. Stark to the door. Syn tossed Loki an apologetic smile as she scooped up her coffee and chased after them.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Containing More Women Clucking, and a Man Drinking_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am kind of bemused at how many of you thought we were gonna kill a little kid. We're not _monsters_ , just fan fic writers.
> 
> Okay, I can see how you'd be confused. . .


	11. Containing More Women Clucking, and a Man Drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Part two. Next chapter may be a little late, as we're behind on our editing. Rest assured we're not abandoning you, just busy :)

The morning room was bright and cheery and extremely feminine, done in yellows and creams. Mrs. Stark sat in a very comfortable looking chair, feet propped on an ottoman as she rearranged her bodice so she could nurse. Syn curled on a chaise lounge like a cat, a flash of bare leg visible under her robe and night gown. Nat suddenly wished she hadn't bothered dressing properly. It had been a very long time since she'd been able to lounge around gossiping all morning.

"Do you have children?" Mrs. Stark asked—Nat assumed of Syn. It was certainly obvious _she_ didn't.

Syn fidgeted with her coffee cup. For someone married to a man nicknamed The Trickster she had a remarkable number of tells. "No. We don't have children as frequently as humans are able to. And, well, we're not entirely sure—There's certain circumstances that might make it difficult. We're not entirely sure if we can or not."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "Tony said Thor told him on the journey home that historical records indicate that his lady would not survive a birth."

"That doesn't surprise me," Syn said as Nat winced in sympathy. "I imagine that was part of the purpose of the Bride Stone. Asgardians and humans are on opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of fragility. I think that's why until recently you were mostly left alone."

"Our lives must seem very short to you," Nat said. "Though I suppose that's why humans have children so frequently."

"Yes, we're considered fertile for over three thousand years," Syn said dryly. "I shudder to think what would happen if we could breed like humans."

The women chuckled. Then Mrs. Stark ventured, "May I ask a particularly inappropriate question that I am fairly certain is currently illegal to ask?"

"Those are the best kind of questions," Syn said, drinking her coffee.

"Let me say that I adore my children. Every one. But." She gestured at Nat. "Clearly you prevent them. _How_?"

Nat had been waiting for this question for, quite literally, years. She answered without a hint of shyness. "I have a device I insert before having intercourse. Covers the entrance of my womb and prevents conception. I can tell you where to get one, if you like."

"It's not. . ." Her cheeks turned a little pink. "In the way?"

She shook her head. "Not at all, it's quite thin. I've never had anyone notice it."

"That's fascinating. And yes, I would like one."

"I'll write down the name of my doctor for you. He's very discreet."

"I could probably do something to prevent it permanently," Syn offered. "I tried it once on a woman who feared she'd die with her next miscarriage. Though I've been unable to follow up and see if it worked."

Mrs. Stark shook her head. "They come easy and Tony delights in 'making people'. I'm just not as young as I used to be and would like to. . .slow it down. I usually have a break until weaning, but this one was eleven months after the last."

"I think it's rather sweet," Syn said. "The making people." She looked at Nat. "If you're ever interested in a permanent solution. . ."

Good Lord, that was appealing. To never have to worry about it again. She should jump at the chance, but the idea of never having a child of her own wasn't as appealing as she might have thought. For an insane instant she wondered if Clint wanted children. That was a thought to be buried immediately and never dug up again.

All she said was, "I'll think about it."

"You should discuss it with your man," Mrs. Stark said. "Men have particular opinions about their progeny and continuation of their bloodlines." She looked up, and said dryly, "And after you spend twenty-seven hours pushing it into the world, they'll behave as if they have succeeded at a great task—all by themselves."

Nat rubbed a hand over her face. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Stark. I don't know what you're husband has told you and I know we didn't correct you yesterday but Barton and I—He's not my man."

"Yes, he is," Syn said, like that was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

"He's really not. We're not—" She glanced at Mrs. Stark. "Together," she finished carefully.

The sorceress waved a dismissive hand. "You don't need sex to belong to someone. It helps, but it's not required."

Nat didn't know what to say to that. What to think. Other than the fact that she might be correct was utterly terrifying.

"My husband didn't say anything," Mrs. Stark said quietly.

And somehow, that was even more terrifying. "We've been friends—partners—a long time. We're comfortable with each other."

"Tony and I were friends. It was years before he even knew I was a girl. For much longer he was pretty much the only person who knew I was a girl. We were each other's confidants. One day it was platonic and then another he was having the awkward conversation where he explained to his uncle how he'd gotten one of his chums from school with child."

Syn chuckled, but Nat was still feeling too stunned to see the humor. She was really wishing for that spiked coffee now.

"I was a maid in the Asgard palace," Syn said. She shook her head at Nat's confused look. "Long story. I started in the kitchen and moved up to be one of the queen's handmaidens when I was of age. One day Loki invited me to his rooms." She crooked a finger as if demonstrating. "He wasn't known for defiling maids but when a prince asks a female servant to his chamber there's really only one thing you can assume." A fond smile crossed her face. "I was so nervous I was shaking. But I went. And he didn't touch me. Just offered me a chair and sat across the room from me. And we talked. For hours. For months we did that. He'd invite me, I'd arrive anxious and shaking and nothing would happen."

"He was probably just as terrified," Mrs. Stark commented. "Young men are a mess of false bravado."

"That occurred to me about halfway through this very odd courtship," she admitted. "I started wearing lower cut gowns after that."

Nat chuckled. "What happened? How did he finally. . ." She waved a hand. The only word she could think of was ‘claim’ and that seemed far too vulgar for current company.

The fond smile came back. "One night—it was winter, I remember there was a fire in the hearth—he stopped me before I left. And he kissed me. _Really_ kissed me. And he told me he wouldn't ask me to come again. But that if I _wanted_ to see him I would be welcome."

"How long did it take?" Mrs. Stark asked with a little smirk.

"I don't think I actually waited until the next night fall," Syn admitted. "I was ready to come out of my skin."

The other woman sighed. "That's really romantic." She paused. "Unless there was later a request to measure your décolletage to compare it to the woman he'd seen at a burlesque show. Then I won't be jealous."

Nat covered her eyes with a hand as Syn laughed. "No. Loki assures me he has not noticed another woman since I agreed to join him in bed. Much to my surprise, he wasn't lying. My husband is many, many bad things, a rover is not one of them."

"He didn't even glance at me in Italy," Nat said. "Not a lot of men can ignore me when I'm working."

"Tony does not stray," Mrs. Stark said. She sighed again. "But he did ask me once if he could measure yours. Purely for scientific inquiry, of course."

"Either you said no or he's more afraid of me then he lets on. Because he never asked."

"I told him messing with someone else's woman is a great way to get punched in the face, and that would make his week sleeping in the bathtub even more uncomfortable than it already was going to be."

Insanely, Nat felt her cheeks heat as Syn laughed out loud. Barton could be pretty scary when he wanted. He'd probably be proud the mention of him could keep Stark at bay.

"You make him sleep in the tub?" Syn asked.

"It's never happened, but I threaten it all the time."

"We have a sofa. Every house we move to I buy one. It's always pretty and fashionable and extremely uncomfortable. When I threaten to make him sleep on the sofa he knows _exactly_ which one I mean."

Nat felt a faint pang of something—it couldn't be jealousy—at watching the other women compare stories. She rarely thought of the things she missed out on, living the life she lived. But once in a great while something small and stupid smacked her in the face and she felt the loss.

They were on a roll now, dissecting the mundane happenings of a marriage. The things that made them laugh and drove them crazy. But it was all said from a place of loving certainty, a place that seemed as inaccessible as the moon to Nat.

Funny that Mrs. Stark had referred to her as his, and it hadn't thrown her nearly as much as them insisting _he_ was _hers_.

When it was obvious she was no longer needed in the conversation she excused herself and left them to it. The dining room was empty and she was pretty sure Coulson would have found her if there was a meeting going on. Maybe they were getting an impromptu morning off? If that was the case, it was possible she was going to go crazy from boredom in the next few hours.

She turned back to the main hall, and there was Clint, coming down the stairs. "Hey. There you are."

Something odd and not entirely unpleasant fluttered in her chest. Yeah, okay, she was his. She could probably come to accept that.

"I was having girl talk with Syn and Mrs. Stark."

He looked at her for a moment. He reached into his coat and pulled out his flask. He held it out to her without a word.

She laughed and took it, unscrewing the top. "It wasn't that bad," she admitted. "But thank you." She tipped her head back, taking a long swallow.

He watched her, as if he could read her like a book. "You sure?" he asked quietly.

If she was a different woman she could have admitted that no, she wasn't all right. That she was unsettled and confused and oddly lonely. But that was the start of one of those big, scary conversations and she just wasn't ready to have that with him right now. So she handed the flask back and nodded. "It was almost pleasant."

He didn't believe her. She could see it on his face. But he also knew her, and he wasn't going to call her bluff. She wondered, for just a moment, if that bothered him. Sometimes he seemed as afraid of the conversation as her. Sometimes he seemed to want to have it very much.

Instead, he smiled at her and said, "So, we're left to our own devices, at least until Coulson gets done exchanging angry telegrams with Fury. Apparently word of the New Orleans debacle has reached him." He glanced over at the door. "Want to go find some trouble to get into?" 

She grinned, feeling something unknot inside her. "With you? Always."

*

Trouble, as it turned out, involved returning the carriage he'd stolen (with a generous apology payment), hunting muggers in Central Park—one of Clint's favorite activities when in a large city with Natasha—and doing a tour of local pubs in descending order of respectability.

The house was dark when they got home, and since neither of them wanted to rouse and face Jarvis, they climbed in a window, making jokes entirely too loudly about poor security.

"You and I can sneak in anywhere," she asserted.

"Not this drunk. And, shh." He was glad they were at the end of the hall. He didn't think he could find a less distinctly located door. One of them probably should have asked for a separate room, but there was no fixing that now. And he couldn't really remember what the problem was.

There was a note tacked to the door and he reached up to pull it off. The words blurred in front of his eyes. "Why did a drinking contest with an Irish stevedore seem like a good idea? Can you read this?"

Nat held the paper in front of her face. "Coulson has very fancy handwriting." She lowered it. "We're sailing tomorrow."

He managed to get the door open. "I quit."

She patted his back, shoving him into the room. "Maybe Stark can build you an anti seasick machine."

"I'm going to go live in San Francisco and sleep in my pile of gold." He really wanted to get his boots off before sleeping, but it was hard. He had fallen on the bed at some point and the idea of getting up seemed impossible.

Then he felt her hands on his ankle, carefully unlacing his boot. Huh. Usually this was the other was around. "Cowboy boots are easier to get off," he told her. "Why am I wearing these shoes?"

"I don't know. Maybe you were dressing up for Stark." Oh, she thought she was so funny.

"Be nice, or I'm not going to let you come live in the gold pile with me." Clearly she would see how serious a consequence that was.

The second boot hit the floor and she got up and joined him on the bed, unlacing her own boots. "Yes, you will," she said over her shoulder. It was completely unfair how not drunk she was. It shouldn't be possible for that little body to hold that much alcohol.

"You're right," he told her. He'd long lost both his jacket and his tie, but he did manage to wrestle out of his waistcoat. He might, if he really tried, get under the blankets. "I like to be where you are."

She smiled at him as she finished with her shoes. "I like being around you, too." From Natasha that was a compliment of the highest order. She got up and walked out of his line of sight and he heard the rustle of fabric. She must be getting undressed. That seemed like something he might want to look at. But, oh, moving was hard.

Closing his eyes was just so much easier. "I would probably follow you to the end of the earth." That sounded depressing. Wasn't there supposed to be some giant waterfall at the end? If the earth wasn't round, of course. The oceans would make a waterfall, and they'd probably fall into it. She hated getting her nice dresses wet. "Then I would learn how to fly."

A cool hand stroked his forehead. "I believe you would, _moi pitchka_."

That was the last thing he remembered, before waking up to bright sun and a blinding headache. 

Nat was still asleep. She had her face pressed into his shoulder and her arm flung across his abdomen. The arm she was laying on was numb and tingling—which was a little tragic, as he was pretty sure her breasts were pressed against it, and she hadn't slept in her corset.

Still, moving needed to happen very carefully, lest she panic at their position. More and more she seemed almost. . .afraid of him. It had been stupid of him to bring up Thor banging on his door looking for her. Somehow the topic had turned serious, and now. . . he didn't really know. Something had changed, and it unsettled her.

And he had a hangover. And they were getting on the boat again. Today was going to be a wonderful day.

He managed to get out from under her without rousting her—a miracle of its own—and stumbled to the washroom. When he came back out she was up and dressed. She glanced at him when he emerged and held out a handful of hair pins with a hopeful look.

He sighed, trying to swallow his bad mood. He took the pins, listening to the doors slamming and children shrieking out in the hallway, and trying not to wince. He cursed his excellent hearing. "Just don't say anything," he told her.

"Quiet as a mouse," she assured him. "Want me to find you some aspirin?"

"I'll be fine." He pinned up her hair. How had they acquired this strange habit, anyway? Maybe he should go dig up some of his gold coins and hire her a lady's maid.

When he was finished she sat to tug her boots on while he gathered up his clothes. She had repacked her trunk and set it next to the door, and was now scanning the room for any sign she had been there. Old habits died hard. He shoved his things in his bag. At least the ship had laundry. He slung it over his shoulder. "It will take everyone a while to get moving. I could use some fresh air, so I think I'll walk down to the wharf."

She nodded. "I should probably check in with Coulson. I'll see you there."

He put his hat on his head and touched the brim. "You know where I'll be."

There was, in fact, chaos in the front hall, including the Starks having what sounded like a pretty loud argument. He slipped out before Coulson noticed him. It was freezing cold outside, but at the moment he found it bracing. In ten blocks it burned his lungs. In twenty he wished for a warmer coat, and by thirty blocks he was glad he didn't have it. Slowly the neighborhoods got dirtier, busier, more crowded and more ethnic the further south he went. Somewhere are 24th Street he realized he could see Rogers walking the crowd ahead of him. Apparently he'd had the same idea.

Clint stopped to grab something to eat in Little Italy and kept walking south. He finally caught up to Rogers only a few blocks from the wharf, because he'd stopped to stare at the steel framed building going up on Broadway across from Trinity Church. 

The walk had helped his headache and his mood. "Stark told me it's going to be twenty floors high."

Rogers shook his head. "Twenty. . . how is that possible?"

"Steel. Apparently. You'd have to ask Stark, engineering isn't my wheelhouse."

Rogers shook his head. "Every time I think I'm adapting something blindsides me. Twenty stories. I never would have imagined such a thing."

"Have you seen Shield's ship yet?" The other man shook his head. "Come on, then. I find it impressive and I hate ships."

The wharf wasn't far. The rest of them, with their carriages and wagons, had beat them there. Stark was supervising the loading of heavy cargo on with a crane. Right now something that looked like a cross between an automobile, a ship’s propellor, and farm equipment was being lowered into the hold. 

"I've seen the great steamships," Rogers commented as they looked up at it. "I've never been on one."

"Someone else might be better at giving you the nickel tour. I don't often get out of my room much." 

Rogers glanced over at him. "No sea legs?"

He started up the gangplank. "No time to grow them in the week it takes."

From behind him he heard an astonished, "A _week_?"

"Welcome to the future, Captain." 

Coulson was at the top of the gangplank with a clipboard. "Oh, good. You did show up." He looked up. "Fury requested that I ask you if he would be visiting San Francisco. I have no idea what that means, but I said I would tell you, and now I have."

Clint rubbed his eyes. There was the headache again. "Don't worry about that. You have quarters for Rogers?"

"End of the same hall as yours, next to Thor's. Can you show him? I need to argue with Stark about any number of things."

Clint nodded and gestured for Rogers to follow him. He scanned the deck, but didn't spot Nat or any of the others, just crewmen. Probably already getting their bunks in order.

They went below, and he showed the Captain his room. Most people were very impressed by the first class accommodations on this ship. So he was surprised when the other man's reaction was, "Is that a bed?"

Clint had no idea what the problem was. "It. . .yes."

"A bed bolted to the deck. On a ship. That's the craziest thing I've ever seen."

"I really kind of doubt that," he replied, but Rogers was already charging down the hall. "Where are you going?" he called after him.

"To get something!" he replied, before disappearing up the stairs. 

He rubbed his eyes again, wishing he'd taken Nat's aspirin.

Clint was reacquainting himself with the hell that was his ship bed when there was a knock on the door. "It's Steve!"  He sighed. "Sure, come in."

The other man charged in carrying an armload of canvass and rope. Well. That was new. He sat up slowly. "Is that a. . .sail?"

"No." The Captain was peering at the walls and ceiling of Clint's room. "It's the answer to your seasickness." He seemed to spot what he was looking for and walked to one wall, tying one end of the rope to a steel girder on the corner of the room.

"A body bag?"

"It's a hammock," the other man said, sounding vaguely exasperated. "It lets the ship rock around you instead of tossing you everywhere." He tied off the other end with an efficiency only a lifelong sailor could manage. He tested the hammock with a few sharp tugs, then turned back to Clint. "Trust me."

He stared at it. He was absolutely willing to try anything. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm happy to be useful."

"Do you happen to have any idea where we're going? Natasha took the note."

"Brussels," he said. "We're going to see the King."

Clint contemplated the hammock a moment. "Well, won't that be fun."

* * *

End Part Two

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Mind Games, Card Games, Spy Games, and The World’s Oldest Profession. Not Necessarily In That Order_


	12. Mind Games, Card Games, Spy Games, and The World’s Oldest Profession. Not Necessarily In That Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Part the Third**
> 
> _"The tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness." - Joseph Conrad_

The trip across the Atlantic had been. . . odd. Natasha couldn't quite put her finger on it at first. The hammock Steve had hung had made a world of difference in how Clint handled the trip. They even had a bit of weather they didn't have to ask Thor to stop. She was glad he didn't spend a week in his room longing for death. But he wasn't exactly himself, and she hadn't known what to do with him. He'd sat in the back during their group planning sessions, saying nothing at all. 

She couldn't remember the last time they'd had a meeting where it was suggested Nat do something dangerous alone, and he didn't offer up even a token concern.

Well, technically, she wouldn't be alone. She'd be going in with Loki to get the stone's location. Everyone agreed that a small, covert team was the best way to go. Loki was familiar with the King and the castle. And she was, well, her. It would still be the first time in years she did something dangerous without Clint at her back. Even with their current discombobulation she didn't know how she felt about that. And that wasn't even getting into whether or not she really trusted Loki without Syn at his side reminding him not to kill people.

"Don't be one of those people that daydreams."

Speaking of Loki.

She looked up at him. "I was thinking. Doesn't mean I'm not aware of what's going on around me." At the moment, all that was going on around them was the receiving line they were waiting in. A dinner party being held by the King's son was their invitation into the palace. She was wearing her courtesan dress. He still didn't look.

"I was simply inquiring. Many women of Midgard seem quite flighty. I imagine the corset cuts of circulation."

She actually kind of resented the fact she found that amusing. "I’ve seen your wife in corsets. She seems to manage just fine."

"Syn in a woman of singular intelligence and skill."

Well, she did put up with him. That had to require a skill of some sort. "Are you going to be snippy all evening? Because that will make the espionage really tiresome."

The line moved slowly forward. "Ah, yes. You prefer lurking silence."

"I am a woman of entirely different skills."

"So I've been told." She had no idea what, exactly, he meant by that, but he was one of those people whose tone always seemed. . . mocking.

She shouldn't let him get to her. If she was on top of her game she wouldn't have even noted the comment. She needed to stop thinking about Clint and seasickness and beds and whatever else was fogging her up. "Do you think you'll be able to get alone with the king?"

"Undoubtedly. He has a new mistress, which means he's thinking with the wrong head." Loki's smile was dangerous and not at all nice. "Distracted people are very easy prey."

All right, on that they could probably agree. "Just remember whose side you're on."

"I am always on the side that most benefits me. In this endeavor, that is most definitely yours."

They reached the head of the line. "Good. Let's get this over with."

*

Clint had never really appreciated how boring it was to be stuck at base when an op was going on. Stark had holed himself up in one of the rooms with some pile of machinery or another. Thor flew back to England to see Jane. Clint had kind of hoped he could talk the others into a poker game. But Rogers had announced he was heading down to find out what a Belgian brothel looked like. Banner had, shockingly, offered to tag along and somehow the two of them had convinced Coulson to join them. Something about him being the only one who spoke the language.

Theoretically, Clint could have gone with them. Nat would have told him to, if she had been standing there with them. But she would have looked at him strangely for days, if not weeks, afterwards. Better to enjoy his solitude and drink his woes away.

Of course, when he walked into the main room of the suite they'd rented in Brussels he was reminded he wasn't alone. Syn sat at the table, a large, thick, leather bound book at her elbow. She was shuffling a deck of tarot cards, looking off in the distance. She startled a little when he came in. "Ah. I thought everyone had gone."

"Sorry to disturb you. They went out whoring and I didn't. . .I mean. . ." He wasn't sure how to say, 'I didn't feel like paying a prostitute, out of loyalty or affection to a woman who I think might be terrified to let me touch her.' There was no way to say that that wasn't sad. "I wasn't in the mood."

Something in the way she looked at him made him think she'd heard the sentence he hadn't said. She shuffled the cards again. "You're welcome to join me. I tried to read. But couldn't concentrate."

He sat across from her. "I don't know what to do either," he said. As if her enforced honesty was a mist around her, and he was breathing it in. Something about her made him not feel like bullshitting. "Usually I'm, you know, there."

She smiled. "Me, too. Much as he hates it. I feel better keeping an eye on him."

"I think the rest of us would feel better if you were doing that, too. No offense."

She laughed, dealing herself three cards. "Oh, you never know. The two of them in there? They may just conquer Belgium and solve the problem that way."

"It's not much of a country. I think Texas has larger cattle ranches." He waved at the cards. "So are you reading fortunes?" He paused. "Can you do that. . .for real?"

The look she gave him was worthy of any gypsy on Bourbon St.. "I'm almost eleven hundred years old, I've never met anyone or anything that can accurately tell the future. These were a gift from Loki when we first moved to New Orleans. He teases me that I have premonitions. But really I'm just observant."

He smiled. "Too bad. I was hoping you'd tell me how rich I'll be." He looked at the window. "Or at least how tonight goes." Or maybe even when things between him and Nat would be normal again.

She cut the deck and tossed him a card. It was a beautifully hand drawn picture of a man surrounded by stacks of gold coins. "Knight of coins. Generally represents someone stubborn and likely to stand their ground. Common in readings regarding decision making." He looked at her askance and she smiled. "I do know a little sleight of hand. I am a sorceress."

"Don't share your tells with the table, now," he said with a grin.

He tossed the card back to her and she reshuffled. "You play poker, don't you? It seems like something you would do."

"Not everyone with a cowboy hat plays poker." He paused. "But yes, I do. Pretty well, usually."

"I know it requires bluffing," she said thoughtfully. "I can't decide if I would be excellent at it or terrible."

Now this was starting to sound like an evening's entertainment. "Would you like to learn?"

With a gesture, the tarot deck changed into a regular deck of cards. She placed it in front of him with a smile. "Yes."

*

King Leopold was in his private parlor, waiting for his mistress to arrive. She wouldn’t make her appointment.

"I didn't kill her," Loki hissed.

Nat got around in front of his face. "What did you do to her? She just vanished."

"I sent her to her own room and put her to sleep." Nat tilted her head and gave him a look that indicated she didn't believe him. "I was going to just send her out to the gardens but she might have alerted the guard."

That sounded a little more realistic. "Fine. I will go in and. . .introduce myself, and then you'll follow and do whatever it is you do."

"Yes, yes. After you." He gestured grandly to the door.

She straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirts and swished into the parlor. The King looked up at her, first surprised, and then his eyes turned appraising. He was old, old enough the appreciative stare was unsettling.

Her previous employers hadn't cared what she did to get close to men. She'd seduced and almost seduced a lot of creepy old men. Shield was a little more proper about such things. So it had actually been a long time since she'd had to deal with a look like that. She really was off her game lately.

Somehow she mustered a smile as she came closer to him. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

He eyed her hungrily. "I was expecting someone else. But you will do quite nicely." He stood to approach her and she braced herself for him to touch her.

There was a shimmer of green around the chair he had just vacated and Loki's smooth, accented voice came from behind the king. "Good evening, your Majesty." Leopold froze, eyes widening in recognition. He turned and Nat saw Loki was now sitting in the chair, idly playing with his walking stick. "Tell me, what have you been doing with that little bauble I found for you?"

He lifted his chin. "I am putting it to good use."

A twirl of the walking stick. "Are you sure you don't want to rethink that word? Admittedly, I'm not entirely fluent in your language but I don't believe 'good' has _anything_ to do with what you do." His mouth curved into a frankly terrifying smile. "And believe me, I would know."

"I am building an army. You knew what it did when you sold it to me."

Loki titled his head and gestured with one graceful hand. "As it turns out, no, I did not. And it's been pointed out to me that there are certain. . . side effects I was unaware of. I've also been informed they're not ones I can live with. So. I'm going to need the stone back."

He waved a hand. "Oh. Don't worry about that. We believe the exact amount of contact can be scientifically devised. Until we determine that, we're not exposing any of our men to it."

Loki's gaze flickered to Nat's face, then back to the king. "Any of _your_ men?"

"We are conducting experiments in our colony in the Congo. Only on the local negroid population. The inferior races are much more expendable."

Nat had to fight the urge to punch the man. In the head. With the marble bust sitting on the pedestal next to her. Loki just sighed. "Inferior races. There are so many things wrong with that presumption the mind boggles. So the stone is in your dreadful facility in the Congo?"

"That is none of your concern."

Loki stood, inspecting the gold top of his walking stick. "My wife—you recall my wife, you called her several unflattering names last we spoke—likes to remind me not to kill people just because they annoy me. However, it's come to my attention that there are a great many things that humans can live through." He stepped closer to the king and tapped him lightly with the stick. "You can tell me where the stone is or Miss Romanova and I can demonstrate. Your choice."

The man lifted his chin, managing to look both indignant and scared at the same time. "I am a king!"

Loki flipped his walking stick around and slammed the bottom into the stone floor. Half a dozen mirror images of him appeared, circling the King. They looked every bit as real—and menacing—as he did. "And I am a god."

*

"I can't wait to tell Loki I could have been hustling riverboat gamblers for money instead of tangling with career criminals."

Clint watched Syn rake in the small pile of coins she'd just won off him and sighed. "When this is over, I'm taking you on the circuit whether he likes it or not."

She grinned, stacking her winnings up neatly. "Oh, he won't get a vote."

"I assumed you wouldn't be able to bluff," he grumbled.

"I fold when I have nothing. Otherwise I can convince myself it's _possible_ my hand is better then yours and it isn't lying to bet on it." She reached for the bottle of whiskey he'd dug out of the liquor bar and took a swig. "I am a master at loopholes."

He took the deck of cards back and shuffled them, seriously considering teaching her gin rummy instead. "I imagine someone like Loki is just full of loopholes."

She sighed, putting the bottle down with a _thunk_. "Yes. After this long together he can get around my power quite handily when he wants to. It can cause. . . a strain."

"I can imagine." He took the bottle from her to drink himself. "But when your life is extraordinary and strange, just finding a kindred spirit it practically a miracle. Is it worth it to rattle the cage?"

The whiskey burned pleasantly on the way down. When he looked back at her, he could see she knew they weren't just talking about her and Loki anymore. "Sometimes," she conceded. "But it's about choosing your battles. If the status quo isn't working then someone needs to be the one to change it."

"I don't like battles," he commented. "I shoot from distance."

"Choose your shot, then." She flipped one of the coins through her knuckles. "Loki. . . didn't know how to show me affection. Other then the obvious," she added with a grin. "I could either consign myself to a relationship without or I could push the issue until he learned. It's the price of loving someone whose head has been throughly messed with."

There was a certain irony to how the genders were different. The obvious, as it were, would almost certainly do a lot to make something manageable out of their limbo of silence. Instead, they had a lot of the sort of things that would probably make a woman looking for affection feel better. Tea and toast when sick. An ear at the end of a long day. Hairpins and mended socks. If she didn't know how to sew, every item of clothing he owned would have a hole it.

Though he was fairly certain they were the only couple to share a very serious vow not to let each other die slowly of a gut wound. Of course, when you killed people for your job, was that even that momentous of a promise?

"Anger is combative. Fear is not. It flees. It's impossible to push against something that doesn't push back." This was a strange conversation. He couldn't blow her off—magic truth sense and all. But he didn't want to to discuss it. And yet he _was_. "You are some sort of sorceress." 

She propped her chin on a fist and gave him a gentle smile. "I'm told there's something magical in meeting a kindred spirit. And there are all manner of ways one can be so. I know I'm a bit. . . softer then the rest of you, but I'm not unfamiliar with darkness. And I have been navigating my relationship with Loki a _very_ long time."

He drank more whiskey. "It ever get any easier?"

"Yes. Eventually, he realized I was on his side and problems became ours instead of just his or mine. It's never simple. And people rarely understand. But if you love them. _Really_ love them. It's worth it."

"I don't—" He shook his head. He didn't even know the back end of that sentence. _I don't love her?_ Not true. _I don't think she loves me?_ Also not true. He was both very certain of those things, and not at all sure either made a damn difference, in the end.

He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He should stop drinking. He said embarrassing things when he was drinking. He did still have a little bit of money left. "Up for another hand?" he asked Syn.

To her credit, she didn't press, just leaned back in her chair and nodded. "Deal."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _On a Ship Bound for Africa, Things Get Awkward_


	13. On a Ship Bound for Africa, Things Get Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick notes:
> 
> 1\. We've got enough buffer (and enough stories going) that we're going to try to keep to a regular posting schedule. GA chapters will go up Wednesdays and Saturdays.
> 
> 2\. I've dusted off my old Tumblr account to use as a fan fiction communication station. Starting in the next week or two I'll start posting fic info, behind the scenes stuff, metas, announcements, polls/questions, and possible sneak peeks. As well as general Marvel and other fandom reblogs. Follow me at http://nyxetoile.tumblr.com

They dumped the unconscious King Leopold unceremoniously in his bed. "I don't know why Fury made me promise we wouldn't kill him," Nat muttered.

"Regicide causes all manner of diplomatic problems." Loki looked over at her. "Trust me."

She'd heard enough about him to believe that so she didn't comment. They locked the door behind them and made their way downstairs. "So, now we get to go to the Congo to what is, by all accounts, hell on earth. And that's from agents who don't know about the damn stone."

"First we have to get everyone out of the city, to the coast, and on the ship before he wakes up." He smiled that dangerous smile of his. "And then we'll plan our invasion force of gods and monsters."

"I'm pretty sure you're not actually a god. Syn says you can die." Though, admittedly, some of the magic she'd just seen him do did make her lead towards at least demi-god.

He shrugged easily. "‘Can’ and ‘likely’ to are very different things." He squinted at the crowd of carriages in the courtyard. "Would you care to take a shortcut?"

"Don't tell me you can fly, too?"

"He doesn't actually fly, he just hangs onto that damned hammer of his and _it_ flies. And no. But I can teleport. At least to places I've been."

She blinked at him. "Does it hurt?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering. "I don't think so. Syn has never complained. I don't often get feedback from the humans I send places."

Of course he didn't. "I'll try it. I reserve the right to harm you if it's painful."

"I'm feeling generous, you can even delegate the job to Syn if your efforts prove fruitless." He held his hand out to her, as if he was a gentleman asking her to dance. 

She clenched her jaw and put her hand in his. It was icy cold. She barely had time to register the fact before she felt a tug deep in her chest, heard a sound like roaring wind, and they were standing in the hallway of the hotel. She felt a moment of dizziness, but it passed almost before she could lift a hand to her head.

For a moment she just looked around. Then she breathed, "Holy shit."

He grinned. "Painless?" he asked.

"Amazingly so."

A door down the hall opened, and Stark came out of it. "You're back. Did you nail the bastard?"

"Regrettably, he still lives," Loki responded. "But we got the information we needed and caused him some unnecessary pain in the process."

"Sounds perfectly necessary to me," Stark replied.

"We do need to all get packed up and back to the ship. He may be mad when he wakes, if he remembers us. We're not sure how long Loki's magic will hold on a human mind." His capabilities in that area at all were a disturbing thought, if she pondered it too long. 

"Someone is going to have to go round up the rest of the men, they went to cathouse and aren't back yet." 

Loki's nose wrinkled in distaste. "No."

Nat sighed. "Let me change. I'm not wearing this to a brothel."

"It would certainly get lots of attention," Stark said. "You need help?" She didn't know what sort of face Loki made beside her, but it prompted Stark to add, "Oh, man up."

The door behind them opened and Syn popped her head out. "I thought I heard you out here." 

Whatever retort Loki may have had dissolved into a smile at the sight of his wife. "Good evening, dear heart. Did you entertain yourself in my absence?"

She stepped out into the hallway. "Yes, Barton taught me how to play poker. I'm very good at it." She stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Did you behave?" She turned to Nat. "Did he behave?"

"He was a perfect gentleman." Also very scary, but none of it was directed at her. "We have a location on the stone. I have to change so I can go interrupt boys night." She looked up at Syn. "How long have they been gone?"

The other woman frowned, leaning on Loki's side. "I'm not sure, I lost count of how many hands we played. Barton? Do you recall when the others left?"

He appeared in the doorway looking vaguely sheepish. "Two, two and a half hours?"

Stark shrugged. "They've got to be back soon. We could give them another hour."

"Seems rude to interrupt a man's recreational activity," Clint offered. "They got Coulson to go—who I think needs to get laid more than any person I have ever known."

"Time is of the essence," Loki said. "But there's likely no harm in giving them another hour or so."

Nat was still trying to process the fact that _Coulson_ had gone to a whorehouse but Clint hadn't. There was nothing about that that made sense.

She could feel his eyes on her, like he was inspecting her for injury, but he didn't ask her anything, or comment on the whorehouse. "I imagine we'll be getting on the road when they return. I'm going to take a nap because someone should be sober. Wake me if you need help rounding them up—else when it's time to leave."

"Thank you for the gambling lessons," Syn said brightly.

He grinned at her, and tipped his hat. "Anytime, ma'am. Gentlemen," he said the to the others. Then he turned and met her eyes, and she watched the grin dim. "Good night, Natasha."

She wondered when, exactly, everything had gone sideways between them. Now was not the time to ask, so she just inclined her head and said, "Goodnight, Clint."

She watched him walk down the hallway, and could feel the rest of them looking at her. When she turned, their eyes all found somewhere else to point, though.

"I'm going to pack," Stark said finally, a little too loudly.

"Yes, us too," Syn agreed, pushing Loki towards their room.

Great. Now they'd all become teenagers. She turned without a word and headed to her room. Once she had the door closed behind her, she leaned against it and stared at her trunk. It wasn't going to pack itself, but she just felt. . tired.

Someone knocking on her door made her jump. She turned and yanked it open, and was surprised to find Clint on the other side. Also to her surprise, he wrapped his arms around her in a hug, nearly lifting her off her feet. "I'm glad you're all right," he murmured into her hair.

She managed to get her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "Wasn't the same without you."

"I worry," he said gruffly. Then he set her back on her feet. He cleared his throat. "Anyway. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Sleep well," she told him, smiling. He nodded, and then he disappeared back into his room. She blew out a breath and closed her door. Maybe there was hope after all.

*

They met the ship in Antwerp. After crossing the North Atlantic with the hammock, Clint felt better about the journey to Africa. It was longer, too, which meant eventually he'd get sea legs. When they'd gone long distances—like the two weeks it had taken them to get to India to find Banner, the nausea had subsided by the end of the first week. 

The advantage of his reputation about this was Fury did not expect him to attend the long planning meetings they had begun to have, just about the moment they hit the English Channel. He could hide in his room all he wanted. It suited him, anyway. He had too many things on the inside of his head he wanted to sort out. He needed to be clearheaded for this mission, or someone was going to end up dead.

It turned out, though, that laying in the hammock and thinking became a very boring activity rather quickly. He was considering possible target practice opportunities when there was a light tap on his door and Nat poked her head in. "I am using my meeting break to bring you a snack."

He found himself really very happy to see her. And he felt guilty she looked nervous. Their comfort with each other was one of the few steady and reliable constants in his life. So he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. "Thank you," he said, offering her a smile.

She slipped inside, carrying a tray with toast, a teapot and two cups on it. "Seems like the hammock is helping but I wasn't sure what your stomach was up for."

"I might even come out for a real dinner." He hopped down, feeling unsteady as soon as he did. Well, maybe tomorrow.

She set the tray down at his little table and sat, pouring them both tea, adding a criminal amount of sugar to hers before taking a sip. "You've created a monster. Syn is trying to get crewmen to play poker with her. Coulson is threatening to confine her to quarters."

He chuckled. "She's really good at it. Maybe we'll set up a game." 

"We do have some time to kill."

He drank his tea and ate his toast. It was good to have something warm in his stomach. "We were both bored and worried and restless," he said. "I thought teaching her would give us something to pay attention to."

"Did it help?" she asked, nibbling a bit of toast herself.

A loaded question, given what he and Syn had discussed. "I don't know. Maybe. It was better than nothing."

Silence stretched a moment and to his relief it wasn't awkward. "Working with Loki was weird. He's definitely. . . unbalanced."

He frowned. "Did he do something?"

"Not to me. He actually was a perfect gentlemen to me. Just the way he talked to the king." She put her tea cup down with a quiet clink. "He called himself a god. And, frankly, watching what he can do it's kind of hard to argue he isn't."

"The vikings worshiped the Asgardians as gods. They must have done it for a reason." He finished his toast. "Syn healed a boy with a shattered body."

"How did we end up tangling with gods and monsters?" she asked, sounding more exasperated then anything.

"Fury is collecting extraordinary people. For what purpose, I can't say. . . but it doesn't seem like the worst idea ever, give what turns out to be out there."

The little head motion she gave was Natasha-head-tilt-language for ‘that's a good point.’ "I will be glad when this business is all over."

"So we can go back to our regular lives of searching and recruiting?" He wondered if they'd just pretend none of it had ever happened. They could be good at that.

"I'd settle for assassinating normal, non-magical people. Really, anything non-magical."

"Yeah. That might be nice." He watched her as he sipped his tea, thinking she looked tired. At least as tired as he felt, if not more. They hadn't had much of a break since Thor landed on the deck looking for his stone. "You ever think about quitting?"

She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out. "Lately, I've been thinking about it more. If it's going to be like this—magic stones and powers and people coming out of the sky. . . I don't know if I'm up for that long term."

"You'd be welcome to come visit me in San Francisco," he said. _You'd be welcome to live with me, too._ That he did not say, even though it would be empty and lonely without her.

"Are you thinking of quitting?"

He lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. It's my usual pipe dream. I could do it. I have the money, I have a place to go. Some days it's more appealing than others."

She smiled. "Well. If you're in San Francisco I'll sure as hell come visit."

"Good," he said. Though he knew there was no way he'd leave unless she did. That much he was sure of. He would, in fact, follow her to the end of the earth.

The memory made him wince. He had said that out loud, once, hadn't he? He hoped that night she'd been drunker than she looked.

She shifted, bracing a foot on his chair next to his thigh. "We could live lives of decadent leisure."

He looked down at her leg, hidden nearly entirely by skirt, just the toes of her boot and the outline of her knee visible. The urge to touch her was nearly overwhelming, but he busied his hands with pouring more tea. "I think I can afford decadence or leisure, but not both at the same time."

"I have money saved," she said. "I can afford leisure, you take care of decadence."

"And here I thought you had no fortune for me to inherit. You holding out on me, Romanova?"

She flashed him a grin. "I don't have a treasure trove of gold for you track down. I use banks like a civilized person."

He thought about them sitting on the train, discussing his gold and what would happen if they died. For a moment the look on her face had been so haunted he had wanted to promise her he'd live forever, just to make her smile again. It was the closest he'd ever come to breaking their unspoken rules.

Now they could have the same conversation again. They could make jokes and pretend it had never happened. 

Suddenly he really didn't want to have a humorous conversation about a life they would _never_ have. "I think my stomach would prefer I got back in the hammock," he said.

Something uncertain flickered across her face, but she nodded and stood slowly. "All right." She gathered up the tea and lifted the tray. "Do you want me to check on you later?"

He fought the urge to touch her again. "Some more tea and toast will probably sound wonderful in a couple of hours."

She gave him a wide smile with a touch of relief in it. "I'll see you then."

Clint climbed back into the hammock, and stared at the ceiling after she'd gone. Even without being sick, he was starting to wonder if this ship was still hell.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _In Which Irregularities of Uniform Cause Friction, Then an Understanding_


	14. In Which Irregularities of Uniform Cause Friction, Then an Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Saturday in California!

Natasha had noticed Clint slowly feeling better. He began coming to some of the meetings, wandering around the deck, and even, eventually, eating meals with the rest of them. She was happy he was doing better, but missed their toast and tea time. It was something the did for him, part of the balance of their dynamic.

Things were still off between them. She could feel the tension now and then. Sometimes it seemed to harden into distance. It scared her, if she was honest—though she didn't let herself be honest that long.

They were passing south, into much warmer weather. Everyone was hot, and all the men were restless, Clint included. She shouldn't have been surprised to come up to the top deck one morning to find him and Rogers climbing the rigging of the ship's foremast—shirtless. She didn’t know why a ship that had no sails even _had_ a mast, but then she didn’t know much about ships.

Syn was standing in line with the mast, blatantly watching. She glanced at Nat when she joined her. "They're racing," she told her with a grin.

Nat tipped her head back, shielding her eyes with a hand. Clint appeared to be winning, but just barely. "Does Loki know you're out here watching this?"

The other woman put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion and winked. Nat watched with a smile on her face. Beating a professional sailor with superhuman strength at rope climbing was quite a feat.

Rogers caught up but Clint hit the top of the mast first. Nat and Syn cheered appropriately as the men made their way down. Nat used two fingers to whistle when Clint's feet hit the deck.

It could be the sun and the heat and the exertion. . . or he could be blushing. She was trying her hardest not to stare too obviously—but much like that day in Italy, her higher mental functions didn’t work quite well when he had his shirt off.

"I officially pronounce you as having sea legs," Rogers said. "And possibly inhuman arms." He smiled. "Hello, ladies."

"That was a suitably impressive feat of strength, gentlemen," Syn said. "I've rarely seen the like."

"Boredom is doom at sea, and the antithesis of a well run ship," Rogers said. "I can't believe everyone just. . . sits around."

"Not sitting seemed like a worthwhile activity," Clint added. "There was talk of a bare-knuckle boxing match later."

"Coulson informed me I had already taken too much money from the crew," Syn said, dangerously close to a pout. "I am not allowed to hold any more poker games."

"Sign me up for the boxing," Nat said.

"No one is going to box you," Rogers said patiently.

She was extremely gratified that Clint snorted and said, "Because they'd lose." Nat rewarded him with a wide grin.

"I'd box you," Syn offered. "But I wouldn't pose much of a challenge. A brawler, I am not."

"Are there any crew who don't know who I am?" Nat asked Clint. "Maybe I can start grifting the ones she's missed."

"You've now floated the possibility of a girl fight, it's going to be a little while before my brain is working again."

Rogers had wandered off, and returned with a bucket. He was now soaked, so clearly it's contents were sea water. He handed the bucket to Clint, who poured some on himself.

Now that was just unfair. Really. She'd almost gotten a rein on her inappropriate thoughts and now he was standing in front of her shirtless and dripping wet. And there were witnesses so even if she were to give into madness and lick the salt off his pectoral, she'd probably get in trouble. Or at least horrify Rogers.

Syn tilted her head, cheeks decidedly pink. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find my husband." She turned on her heel and walked off, leaving Nat alone in her frustration.

Now she _really_ wanted to punch something.

She could feel him looking at her, but she didn't dare meet his eyes. Rogers shook the water out of his hair. "Two out of three?"

So began the week of tormenting shirtless exercise. 

He wasn't doing it on purpose, and he wasn't even doing it alone. They crossed the Tropic of Cancer and approached the Equator, and it was hotter than hell. Most of the men had slowly unwound into some variation of undress, many of them shirtless. 

She'd seen a lot of naked (or nearly so) men in her life, so she could generally be objective. She wondered why Stark had so many scars. Why Steve didn’t have a single one. Why Thor acquired neither tan nor sunburn no matter how much he was outside. And did he really have no chest hair, or was it like his eyebrows, too blond to see?

She really wondered how Loki, who remained fully dressed, seemed completely immune to the heat—at least until he made a giant block of ice in the middle of the deck out of thin air. 

There was a shirtless football-like ice game on the deck after that.

She tortured herself a while by watching, because now they were shirtless, sweaty, and damp and she was not made of stone. She was kind of impressed that Stark could keep up with the others without his suit. Thor was obviously holding back, as was Rogers to a degree. Clint appeared to be having the time of his life. The little boy grin on his face was almost more attractive then the rest of it.

When her libido had hit maximum pressure, she retreated to the gym below decks to take her aggressions out on a practice dummy.

She was still down there when he found her an hour later. She could tell his footfalls even from the hallway, though he seemed to be walking loudly as a warning. He was one of the few people who could sneak up on her if he wanted to.

"So is that girl fight happening after all?" he asked from the doorway.

The dummy tipped wildly on her next punch. "Syn is busy in her bunk with Loki. You cannot pay me enough to go knock on that door."

He came into the room, and stood behind the dummy to brace it. "He deserves a reward for that ice block."

With the bracing she could put more weight behind it. "I strongly suspect he was giving Syn something to look at so she would drag him back to bed." She whirled and gave the dummy a high kick. "Which I will admit, is kind of brilliant."

Clint made a sound with the force she pushed the dummy into him. "He is a man without jealousy, apparently."

"Well, he's the only one she seems interested in actually touching." She bounced on her feet. "Guess it doesn't matter who she looks at in the meantime."

"You know all you're doing by fighting the dummy is bruising your hands."

"Didn't think they'd let me join the ice ball game."

"If you came up in your corset I'm pretty sure they'd let you do anything you want—including stand there while you kicked them in the head."

She laughed a little, falling out of her fighting stance. "I envy your ability to shed clothes to cool off."

"Honey, no one would argue with you if you did. Least of all me."

Oh, wouldn't that be proper revenge? Strut about in her knickers dumping seawater on herself. "Coulson would argue. Loudly. With lots of syllables."

"I think he would be robbed off all power of speech." He let go of the dummy and came around it. He crowded her space, and she felt her breathing accelerate. He gestured with his hand. "Would you like to hit an actual moving target?"

This close she could smell him and was a little perturbed to realize she found the scent rather pleasant. "You offering?" she asked, sounding a little breathless.

He grinned. "Been a while since we sparred. Curious if you can still kick my ass."

Well, really, how could she resist that? "You're on, Barton."

He rubbed his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet. He was going to wait for her to swing first. He always did. She'd never been able to figure if it was chivalry, or some tactical advantage she hadn't noticed. She balanced herself, studying him, then went for a kick, just for a change of pace.

Clint ducked it easily. "Roundhouse, Nat? You know you telegraph that." He swung at her and she just turned in time. 

"Thought it might take you off guard," she said, going for two quick jabs he deflected easily. "I usually start with a punch."

"Nothing about us goes the way it usually does anymore," he said. He caught her in the stomach, and then shook his hand because he'd hit the bones even her mesh summer corset had.

It had always been easier to talk when she was _doing_ something. Even about hard things. "I've noticed." She feinted a punch then aimed a kick to take his legs out.

He stumbled and hopped on one foot for a moment, like it had hurt. But he didn't go down. "We can't keep doing this, Nat. It's going get someone hurt."

She sighed and clenched her jaw, fists still up. "I know. But I don't know how to fix it." Her voice sounded rough by the end of the sentence and she swung wildly at him.

He caught her wrist, holding in the air between them. "You don't _want_ to fix it."

She tried tugging it out of his grip but he didn't budge. She glared up at him. "Yes, I do."

"You want it to go away," he said. His voice was quiet, dangerous. He was angry. "That's not the same thing."

With a burst of strength fueled by her own anger she yanked her wrist out of his grip. "Well, what the hell do _you_ want?" She went at him in earnest now. "Half of this is you. I _try_ to talk to you and I run into walls. I try to—to not let my fear get the better of me, to be honest. But it's never enough. You talk about leaving me your money if you die or retiring to San Francisco but when I talk about it I get shut down. You've been walking around this goddamned ship with your shirt off for a week and I'm the bad guy? What do you _want_ from me?"

He was just standing there letting her hit him. She could hit hard, but he was a pretty solid wall of muscle so could clearly take it if he felt like it—though his skin was turning red and mottled. He blocked her next punch, finally, pushing her back. "A week shirtless is in no way square for six years of that black and red dress."

"That was for work!"

"And this is because it's hot out!" She kicked him in the side and he doubled over. "I didn't expect you'd give a shit."

"Well, I'm not made of fucking stone, Clint." She paused, breathing hard. "Do you think I—I act strange around your or pull away because I'm _not_ affected by you?!"

She watched his chest heave as he tried to catch his own breath. "I don't know," he said. "All I know is sometime your body language screams 'don't touch me', and so I don't. With everything that's happened to you I feel somebody should respect that, no questions asked."

She scrubbed both hands over her face. "Well, I don't—You're different."

He came closer to her, until she could feel him looming over her. "I miss you," he said quietly.

The next breath she took sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a sob. She tightened her jaw but managed to get out, "I miss you, too."

He reached up, and cupped her cheek in his palm. He curled his fingers under her chin and slowly turned her face up. His eyes searched hers for a moment, though she didn't know what he was looking for, or if he found it. Then he bent his head down and kissed her.

She made a little noise in her throat and curled her hands around his waist, fingers sliding against his bare skin. She pressed closer and opened her mouth to him. He didn't push or press, he didn't devour her. It wasn't a kiss that was about lust. His hand slid up, into her hair and she leaned into the touch. Lust would have been simple. She was familiar with lust. Nothing with Clint was ever simple.

But this was nice.

Eventually he lifted his head, and said, "This is what I want. I want to kiss you. And when this is all over, I want to figure us out." 

She sniffled a little. "I can—I can do that."

His thumbs grazed across her cheeks—she couldn't imagine why, there was no way she was emitting any tears. "I don't know what it is you want. I'd like to give it to you. But I think you probably need to figure out what it is, first."

It felt very natural just to lean forward and rest her forehead on his shoulder. "What I want has never mattered before." 

He wrapped his arms tightly around her, rocking her a little. He cupped the back of her neck and rubbed it. For a moment she just felt. . .safe. "It has always mattered to me."

She locked her arms around him. "Thank you."

He pressed his lips into her hair. "Think we can keep each other alive in the meantime?"

"We do seem to be awfully good at it."

She felt a quiet chuckle rumble in his chest. She could hear his heart beating, they were pressed so close together, her cheek against his bare skin. "Not that this isn't distracting," he murmured.

She pressed a kiss into his skin, tasting salt. "I wouldn't suggest doing this during a battle, no."

He inhaled audibly. "Particularly not that."

"Or this?" she asked, dragging her tongue along his clavicle. He made a growling noise, and tugged on her hair so she had to look up. When he kissed her again it was most definitely about lust this time. She wound her arms around his neck, hauling herself closer to him.

As the kiss deepened he backed her up a few steps until she was pressed against the wall. She groaned into his mouth, hooking a leg around his. He lifted her up, holding her with one arm, letting the other hand explore.

His hand was rough, almost too much, when it scraped over bare skin. She sucked in a sharp breath when he found his way under her skirt and cupped a thigh. It was the heat and the shirtless game and the sparring that made this seem like a good idea, made her feel like she'd die if he stopped touching her. A very carefully constructed wall was cracking and breaking.

After an eternity he lifted his head a little and she whispered, "In the gym . . . probably not the best place to get carried away."

He blew out a breath. "No one would be surprised."

Actually, that was a very good point. "Might be surprised it took this long."

He laughed. "Yeah." Then he kissed her one more time, very slowly and thoroughly, before putting her down.

Her legs didn't feel entirely stable, but she leaned on the wall and managed to stay upright. "You're a good kisser."

That made him grin, the sort of grin he hadn’t directed at her in a while. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of her head, but didn't touch her. "Likewise."

She smiled and tilted her head. "I look forward to doing it more." 

Part of her wanted him to suggest they go back to one of their quarters. Part of her was equally sure that would be a bad idea. Their peace was fragile right now, and while sex would feel good, it would not help. He seemed to be thinking the same, for he stepped back with what seemed like visible reluctance.

She pushed off the wall. "I'm going to go find something to eat. Join me?" That seemed like a nice, safe activity.

He cleared his throat. "Perhaps I'll go find a shirt first."

"I would appreciate that, yes." 

He gave her a very quick kiss, and then he was gone.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _The First Case of Pteromerhanophobia in History_


	15. The First Case of Pteromerhanophobia in History

Clint thought he finally understood what Coulson's warning had been about. The tension involved in figuring out one's relationship was distracting enough to get anyone killed. He hadn't realized quite how bad it was until they'd settled some of it. His head felt clearer than it had in weeks.

They were, however, now inflicting very enjoyable torture on each other. Only a day or so out from their destination, they'd silently, mutually decided to save their energy for _after_. It was excellent motivation to stay alive. It had also caused them to fail at their public pretense of being platonic.

Not that anyone had believed that anyway.

Fury and Coulson were going over the briefing for their upcoming mission in the main lounge. He and Nat were sharing a sofa. She'd tossed her legs over his. He had his arm draped across the back of the sofa, hand on the back of her neck, absently winding one of her curls around his finger. Fury and Thor were arguing, but he really was only half listening.

"You know, I've thought of an alternative to retiring," she said quietly.

He turned his head towards her. "Mmm?"

"We kill Fury and take over Shield."

He snorted in laughter, and then added, "Then we'd have to pay attention in meetings."

She leaned her head into his hand. "We would run efficient meetings. Go here. Kill bad people. Escape. Boom, done."

"I think technically this time we're stealing something."

The noise she made was extremely unladylike. "Pretty sure there's going to be some killing."

"What the hell is going on back there?" Fury called out, causing every head in the room to turn and look at them.

Nat looked at him and said, in the most deadpan voice Clint had ever heard from her, "Marveling at your flawless meeting efficiency. Sir."

He gave her a look. "Marvel silently."

She gave a sharp nod. "Understood." Fury glared another moment before turning back to Thor.

"All right," Coulson said, talking over Fury and Thor, who'd lowered their voices to muttering. "We will drop anchor in the mouth of the Congo River. Thor will depart for recognizance, and then Stark's conveyance will then take the team through the jungle to the base of operations. Our intel is very sketchy, so you need to be prepared for all scenarios." 

Rogers raised his hand. "Uh. Conveyance?"

"You'll see it when we get there," Stark said. "Have a little faith."

"It's just the vagueness of the word. It doesn't inspire confidence."

Clint recalled that strange thing being loaded onto the ship by crane when they left New York, but was at a loss to actually describe it, or theorize how it might. . . convey them.

"Tomorrow morning," Coulson said. "Seven AM, on deck with your gear. It's the jungle, it's hot, there are a lot of bugs, snakes, and other bad things. Pack as light as possible, assume no more than two days. We'll have provisions and tents loaded for you."

There was a murmur of assent and people started to get up and disperse. Nat swung her legs off Clint's lap with a sigh. "I hate the jungle."

"You get to wear trousers." He paused. "Should you maybe see if Syn owns trousers?" 

She stretched as she stood and he greatly enjoyed the view. And the fact he didn't have to hide that he was looking. "I asked her. Apparently, it's not uncommon for female servants to wear leggings. She's very excited to get out of Earth clothes."

"I imagine we will be set, then." He stood up, and was about to offer her his arm when he noticed Stark walking over, looking like he wanted something from him. "Go prep," he said to Nat. "I'll come by later."

She followed his gaze, then nodded, patting his arm as she left. Clint turned and smiled at Stark. "What can I do for you?"

Stark grinned. "Would I be correct in my assumption that you're not afraid of heights?"

*

Nat was pretty sure nothing could surprise her anymore. . . but wandering out onto the deck at sunrise seeing an absolutely enormous blue balloon being inflated off the back of the ship was enough to get her to stop and stare.

Stark was standing on the deck shouting things at the crew doing the inflating. She could see Rogers up in the crows nest. A rope was strung from the top of the mainmast to the top of the balloon, and she could see Clint hanging off of it. 

Banner came to stand next to her. "He's been working on submarines. When I saw the crates coming on, I _thought_ it was that. I told him I wouldn't get in it. Me in a submerged pressurized metal container is not a good idea." 

She couldn't take her eyes off Clint and the rope. "What are your feelings on a giant balloon?"

He chuckled. "Oh, this is much worse." He dug in his bag. "I have something for you."

That made her turn to look at him. "And it's not even my birthday."

He pulled out a small bottle and handed it to her. "It's a formula I created to repel insects. I'd been working on this theory when I lived in India about Yellow Fever—and very recently there has been some very interesting research about the bubonic plague being transmitted by fleas. It stands to reason other biting insects might be disease vectors as well. Malaria is not contagious yet somehow endemic in certain. . . I can see your eyes glazing over."

"You had me up until bubonic plague." She popped the top off the bottle and sniffed experimentally, expecting it to smell foul. She was pleasantly surprised to find it was fairly mild, with a hint of citrus. "Thank you," she told him. "Bugs tend to love me so if it helps me it can work on anyone."

"It's just a theory. Take your quinine. But I hope it helps."

The bottle fit nicely into the interior pocket of her jacket. "Thank you, Dr. Banner," she said again.

"Is _that_ what we're going into the jungle in?"

Nat turned to find Syn and Loki behind her. Loki was in leather armor similar to Thor's. To her surprise, so was Syn. Her leggings looked to be made of some sort of reptile skin and her tunic was the same thick leather as her husband's, only sleeveless. Syn, obviously, felt heat.

"So it would seem," Nat answered. "Stark was holding out on us."

Loki squinted up at it. "It's not exactly subtle."

"Tony Stark doesn't do subtle," Banner said. He looked at Loki. "Neither do you."

"It was an observation, not a critique." He tilted his head. "I could probably use an illusion to make it a little less obvious," he added thoughtfully.

The balloon was lifting fully off the deck now, nearly dwarfing the ship, pulling the rope Clint was hanging from upwards. She watching him hang by one arm, cut the rope behind him, and swing down to land on it's side. She held her breath while he climbed to the top of the balloon and stood up.

"Your man is fearless," Syn said, sounding impressed.

For the first time that phrase didn't send a jolt of panic through her. She just smiled. "Yes, he is."

"Shall we go get a closer look at this contraption?" Loki asked.

There was a series of ladders set up to get them to the passenger area of the balloon. After taking one look at them Nat agreed to let Loki do his teleport thing. It wasn't that she disliked heights. She just preferred to have her feet on the ground. Cliffs, mountains, even buildings were fine. This thing was floating in the air. Hopefully once she was on the balloon she wouldn't have to look over the edge.

It was surprisingly spare inside, given the elaborateness of Stark's train car. It reminded her of the inside of a narrow trolley car. Their gear had been loaded before inflation, so she didn't have much to do but sit on on of the benches—which thankfully had their backs to the windows—as the others got on board.

Everyone found their seats, except for Stark and Clint, who had stayed out on deck. There was a lurch as they cut ties with the ship and took off. Nat was a little embarrassed at how tightly she was gripping the edge of her seat. But not embarrassed enough to let go. Stark opened the hatch and yelled down for Rogers a couple of minutes later, then Loki went up to talk to Stark about disguising the airship.

"This is not natural," Banner said. "Just putting that out there."

"I'm with you," she said through gritted teeth.

"Asgard has had flight technology for centuries," Thor said. "It really is quite safe.

This from the man who could get thrown through walls and bounce back to his feet.

Loki came back down through the hatch. "It's beautiful up there, if anyone feels like stretching their legs. Apparently it will be about eight hours to our destination."

"This vessel moves very slow," Thor commented.

"You want to get out and push?" Loki replied.

Nat watched Thor form an angry reply, then realize that Loki was joking. "Can't you conjure us a dragon to pull?"

"After all the trouble I just went through to make us unnoticeable?"

"Oh, they're so cute when they get along." Syn stood and glanced down at Nat. "I assume you're staying here."

"Yeah. Give the sky my best."

Eventually, everyone was upstairs, except for her and Banner, who'd stretched out on the bench and fallen asleep. Not long after, Clint came downstairs. "You okay?"

"As long as I don't look out the window I’m fine."

He sat next to her, and put his arm around her. "Come here."

She leaned into his side. "Are you going to try to drag me on deck? Because that will ruin the trust we've built."

"No, no. I came down here to fuss over you." He tucked a stray lock behind her ear. "When you didn't come topside I was worried."

"I think I might be a little afraid of heights."

He rubbed her back in small, soothing circles. "You've come and sat on my perches with me before."

"Maybe I'm just afraid of flying. Which is not a fear i ever thought I'd have to explore."

He grinned at her. "I think I enjoy it enough for six people." He leaned his head down. "But I won't hold it against you."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "I suppose I need some sort of flaw."

"Can I get you anything? We have water and tinned rations."

Generally, she hated to be fussed over. But maybe just this once it'd be okay. "Water would be lovely."

He kissed the top of her head and stood up. "Try not to think about it. We'll have plenty of trouble soon enough."

She tipped her head back against the window and blew out a breath. "Yeah. I know."

"I told the others you like to sit in silence before a fight, to collect your thoughts."

"And they bought that?" she asked with an arched brow.

He shrugged. "Loki opened his mouth and Syn put her hand over it before any words came out."

Nat closed her eyes. "I admit, it is kind of nice to have another woman around."

"I'll be back," he said quietly, squeezing her hand.

He brought her the water and sat with her as they floated over the jungle. Thor might not have literally gotten out to push, but he did whip up some wind to hurry them along. At least they wouldn't have to be in the air quite as long as expected.

"You don't have to stay down here with me," she told Clint after a while. "I know you'd rather be hanging off the rigging or something."

His smile was almost impish, confirming her assessment. "Are you sure?"

She stretched up and kissed his cheek. "Go have fun. Don't fall off."

People came and went as the hours passed. Eventually, everyone crowded back down into the compartment for what looked to be a briefing. Clint was one of the last people down the hatch, but damn if they didn't all leave the seat to her left empty as they filed in.

When he finally arrived he was red cheeked and windblown. Nat had never really thought about what Clint would have looked like as a little boy but decided that this was probably pretty close. He dropped into the empty seat and gave her a grin. "Did you get to the top?" she asked.

"It's windy up there," he replied. 

Coulson leaned against the hatch ladder. "All right, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be at the drop-off location in about twenty minutes. There is nowhere clear enough to put down, so you'll need to rappel down. The ladders aren't long enough. Thor and Loki will be taking gear and equipment down, we're very vulnerable for the time it takes to unload so everything needs to move quickly. The pilot and I will take the airship back above the clouds to wait, and I will monitor communications."

Nat's stomach sunk a little at the thought of rappelling from this thing. Still, it would get her to the ground and apparently Syn could fix just about anything. Better to get it over with.

They climbed up to the top and those who were rappelling lined up at the rail with their lines. She very carefully did not look down as she readied her rope. Clint came over to check the knot around her waist. "Same as off a cliff or a building. You've done that. Don't overthink it." He tied another rope onto hers, and then tied that around his waist. "And now you have a second anchor."

She started to protest but his look silenced her. He was strong enough and heavy enough to anchor her and was highly unlikely to fall himself. She sighed in defeat and nodded. "Thanks."

He swung a leg over the rail and surveyed the trees below them. "Go."

Rogers went easily over the side. He looked like he was having almost as much fun as Clint. Banner looked only slightly less nervous then her, so she felt obligated to give him a reassuring smile and climb over. She took a deep breath and let go, swinging out into the air. Clint slid down his rope beside her, not getting out of her peripheral vision. She focused on her hands, and soon she dropped below the tree canopy and landed on her feet on the forest floor.

One by one the rest of them hit the ground. She heard the particularly loud thump and clank of Stark hitting the ground in his suit. Clint untied their ropes and then headed over to the pile of gear.

She shrugged into one of the ration packs and strapped on the extra knife and rifle she hadn't felt comfortable rappelling with. Syn appeared next to them, grabbing a bag as well. She had acquired a pair of gloves and a staff taller then Clint. She offered Nat a smile as she flipped her braid free of the bag. "Good to be on solid ground?"

"You have no idea."

Then unpacked and prepared their weapons with a quiet seriousness punctuated by inappropriate jokes, as most of them settled into the focused zone you got into before a fight.

"You people are slow," Stark called.

"We're not all wearing everything," Rogers called back. "Where's your magic beeping box?"

Stark sighed. "Magic. . ." He tapped his helmet. "Got it on me. How far?" he asked Thor.

"Maybe a mile. It looked pretty ugly in there when I flew over."

"Right. Both machine guns, then."

Nat spotted Loki and Syn having what looked like a very intense conversation as the rest of them finished suiting up. The woman did not look happy at all, but finally seemed to capitulate to whatever Loki was saying. 

When everyone was set Thor pointed the way and they started hiking through the jungle. The brush was thick enough they had to walk mostly single file or paired up, with Thor and Stark leading the way.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Forward Our Heroes Go, Into The Heart of Darkness_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advanced warning, the next chapter will contain violence and references to torture and cruelty. The treatment of the native Congans by the Belgians at this time was fairly horrific and that is played out in the story. I'll post another warning at the beginning of that chapter.


	16. Forward Our Heroes Go, Into The Heart of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post. It is still technically Saturday in my state :)
> 
> WARNING: As mentioned in the last chapter notes, this chapter contains: battle violence, mentions of torture, dismemberment, and gore. We do not go into graphic detail, but it is unpleasant. Apologies to anyone with a faint heart or sensitive stomach.

The sun was setting when they approached their target, just as planned. It was a wood-walled fort in the middle of the jungle, guarded by white men with machine guns. Stark dropped back and let those of them that were less conspicuous creep forward. After his flyover, Thor had described it as slave labor camp on the inside. As they got closer, you could see decapitated, decaying African heads stuck to the pikes that made up the fort walls.

Nat made a noise of disgust. "Yeah," Clint muttered in agreement. 

"Jesus," she heard Banner exclaim from somewhere off to her left. It was followed by an irritated and surprised sounding, "Fuck." The next sound that came out of him wasn't human. 

"Ready or not, sounds like we’re heading in." Clint said. "I'm going up," he said, eyeing the tree beside him. He gave her a quick, hard kiss and then he was gone.

"Get out of the way!" Stark yelled, at god-knows-who, as an enormous green blur went past and crashed into the gates. Machine guns fired from every direction, but it took Nat a moment to move, so startled was she at the sight. She'd never seen The Other One in the flesh before.

The clank of Stark's amor woke her up and she started forward, the rest of them at her heels. She climbed over the wreckage of the gate and immediately took down a guard trying to shoot Banner. The bullets didn't seem to be doing him any harm—he was currently taking on half a dozen men without flinching—but the quicker they took the guards down the faster this would go.

Peripherally, she tracked the others. Stark had fanned to the right with her, his guns rattling. Syn and Rogers had joined Banner in the center of the yard while Loki appeared to be pushing forward, hunting for the stone. Thor was in the air, lighting up stragglers. She wasn't entirely sure where Clint was perched, but she saw several men with his arrows in their eyes and necks.

The fort had descended into chaos. Colonial soldiers were pouring out from every building, half of them trying to fight, half of them trying to contain their captives. There seemed to be a large number of Africans in there, many of them missing hands. She remembered hearing about that in one of the briefings—the Belgians had the strange policy of demanding their soldiers turn in one hand for every bullet fired. It quickly led to hand removals at any opportunity.

The captives looked beaten and starved, and many of them were hiding and running—but just as many seemed to be joining the fight. Machetes were very effective weapons even with only one hand. Syn appeared to have noticed the reinforcements and had started targeting those guards still holding the Africans back. Nat had to give her credit; for someone who came off as a gentle healer, she was pretty lethal with that staff. The brawling Africans added to the chaos, but it was still less Belgians for them to deal with.  
 Thor dropped to the ground next to her. "Loki has found the building with the stone in it. It's heavily guarded." He pointed to a largish building towards the back of the compound.

She nodded, then whistled sharply and pointed towards the building to inform Clint and the others of their goal.

After a moment, she caught sight of him jumping from roof to roof along the perimeter buildings. Stark had turned, looking in the direction she was pointing. A panel in his suit opened and something fired out of it. It moved too fast for her to see, but it landed in the doorway of the target building and exploded.

Tiny explosions began going off all over the camp, and in the middle of the air where there was nothing. They were instant and all different colors, but did no damage. "That's Syn," Thor said. "They both make excellent diversions."

It was enough to get Rogers and Stark out of the fray, heading toward the building with the stone. Banner, Syn and the revolting captives seemed to have the courtyard under control. Natasha sent Thor ahead and made her own way towards the building, scooping up discarded machine guns on the way. Some of the captives had made their way to the destroyed gate and were flooding the jungle. God knew if they had anywhere to go, but if they stuck together they'd probably be all right.

She checked the magazines on her scavenged weapons, swung one on her back and held the other, ducking into the building at Thor's heels. Stark was fighting at the entrance, blasting away at the men who kept coming out at the most obvious target. Thor was doing a good job of mowing down the soldiers streaming into the hallways, and he and Rogers were pushing through, but it was slow going, even with her providing cover fire. She ducked into an empty side room to reload and there was a green flash beside her.

"Hello," Loki said. "Can you pick locks?"

"Of course I—"

"Great!" he said before she could finish her sentence. He put an arm around her waist, dizziness swept her, and suddenly she was in a different hallway, in front of a metal cage with narrow bars. It had a lock the likes of which she'd never seen, and the dark skinned man inside was wrapped in chains. "It’s not steel, I can't even bend it a little."

Magical allies had their up and downsides. She put her gun down and dug into her jacket for her lock-pick tools. "Hi," she said to the captive. "Are you nice?"

He grinned at her and it looked genuine. She crouched to inspect the lock. "Apparently, he's their one success with the stone,” Loki informed her. “He speaks no English but is perfectly willing to help us eviscerate the men who've tortured him and his friends."

"Good enough for me," she muttered, slipping her wire and hook into the lock and carefully tugging.

*

"Where the hell did she go?"

Thor paused in his fighting to glance over at Steve. "What?"

He gestured. "Romanova. She was right here, literally, and I turned my head and she was gone." He ducked as bullets flew over his head. They were coming from behind him, which probably meant it was Stark. He _hoped ___it was Stark and they weren't being surrounded.

Steve leaned against the wall, inspecting the half-dozen splotches of blood blooming on his clothes. Thor and Loki seemed to be actually bulletproof. He, Asgardian strength aside, clearly was not. At least it didn't hurt too bad.

Thor ducked into the side room. "I saw a flash of green, it was probably Loki. I'm sure she's fine."

"I admire your confidence."

Clanking indicated that Stark was in the hallway. He lifted his faceplate. "Coulson is beeping incessantly in my ear. Do we have an update?"

"Loki went to find the stone. We're presuming Romanova is with him." Steve glanced down the hall. "We seem to be running out of people to hit, so I think we're winning."

Syn poked her head around Stark's side. "Banner is holding the courtyard, most of the guards are dead and the captives are fleeing." She noticed Steve's shirt. "Do you need healing?"

He did feel a little dizzy. Blood loss, must be blood loss. "I. . .yes, I think so."

She came to stand in front of him. She put her hands on him and the air between them seemed to glow. _Now_ his gunshots hurt, like a strange combination between a burn and an unbearable itch. He did his best not to flinch while everyone was looking at him.

Someone must have come into the hallway, because Stark started shooting again. There were metal ricochet noises, and then Stark called a worried-sounding, "Thor! Come out here!"

Steve turned his head and leaned enough to see a Belgian soldier at the end of the hall shooting from behind a metal shield. Stark's bullets were bouncing off of it. More alarmingly, Thor threw his hammer and _it_ bounced, shaking the entire building with the force of it.

They all stood there in surprised silence, then an arrow shot down and struck the Belgian in the neck. He crumpled, and Steve looked up to see Barton crouched in the rafters. "Nobody ever looks up."

"I will never mock your arrows again," Stark told him.

"You might want to pick that up," Syn said to Steve quietly. "I fixed the internal damage but I can't do anything for blood loss. It would be good if you didn't get shot anymore."

"Right." He went out into the hallway, stepping around Thor and picking up the shield. He knocked on it, and it made a strange, resonant sound. Thor was looking at it with alarm. "Hey, I need it more than you."

He waved a hand, and came to examine it as Barton dropped down next to Steve. Thor touched the shield. "Syn, come look at this."

She joined them and ran her fingers over the shield. Her knuckles were bruised from the fighting. "That's uru." She glanced up at Thor. "How did that get here?"

Thor's face was dark. "I had hoped Loki was behind it. He didn't provide them with metal?"

She shook her head sharply. "No, only the stone. The king must have another source for this."

"What the hell is uru?" Stark asked. 

"I'm guessing alien metal," Barton said, lifting his bow. "We've got more company."

They all turned to the end of the hallway. Syn held her hands out and her staff—which he had only just noticed was missing—appeared between them. Why couldn't he have gotten that Asgardian power? He stepped forward, holding his shield up as a fresh rain of bullets came towards them.

*

"They're getting closer, hurry up."

Nat paused in the middle of picking the _third_ lock holding the chains on their new friend to glare at Loki. "This is harder than it looks and nagging doesn't help. What the hell is this metal, anyway?"

"It's called uru. The dwarves of Nidavellir use it. It's extremely rare and it shouldn't exist on Earth."

The third lock popped open and the man stretched his arms. The chains felt to the ground with a clatter and Nat scrambled back just in case he wasn't as friendly as she'd been lead to believe.

He said something in a language she didn't understand—though apparently Loki did. But the man seemed to want to talk to her. After a beat he tried a halting, " _Merci._ ”

She smiled and nodded. " _Je vous en prie_." She gestured to the door Loki was heading for. " _Allons-y_."

He nodded, then stopped and touched his chest. "Kayembe."

"Natasha," she replied and pointed. "Loki." Kayembe nodded. She scooped up her gun and the three of them faced the door. At Loki's nod Kayembe kicked it open. 

Inside, there were several white men in Belgian uniforms, and one in a lab coat. A bed lay in the middle, rusted and covered in leather restraints. There was also blood everywhere, including on the walls and ceiling. There were bodies, or at least body parts, piled in the corners. She felt her stomach lurch and even Loki took a step back.

The Belgians turned, and the looks on their faces when they saw Kayembe redefined terror for her. He grinned—half mad, half triumphant—and punched the one in the lab coat so hard he flew across the room.

Loki flung out a hand and knives flew, burying into one of the soldiers. Nat pushed down her disgust and blew a third man away with her gun.

It was over in a moment, and the room was silent except for the sound of the three of them breathing. There were more footsteps in the hallway, including the distinctive sound of Stark, telling her it wasn't more incoming enemies.

"Shit," Stark said from the doorway. He was frozen, clearly bottlenecking the rest of them. Loki and Kayembe were opening cabinets, until they stopped on one with a small safe inside.

From one of the body piles to her left, she heard a moan.

Very slowly, they all turned to look, hardly breathing. With every ounce of strength she had Nat took one, then two steps towards the pile. She crouched, moving aside a leg to find a mostly intact man, breathing painfully. "There's a live one," she said, voice hoarse.

"Do not let Syn—" Loki started to say, but Stark had already moved and the others had crowded into the doorway. Syn burst past the men, heading towards Nat, but Loki caught her before she could reach her. "You promised," he told her quietly.

She tried to tug out of his grip. "But we're not—we've won. They're in no shape to overwhelm me and the rest of you can stop them—You have to let me try," she said desperately.

Rogers came over to crouch next to Nat moving the rest of the other bodies. They all had similar injuries, like their muscles had split their skin—ripped apart from the inside. The man that was alive looked the same. "This is what happens when you hold it too long."

"You can't save someone that bad," Loki said, sounding very gentle, but very firm. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"You have to let her try!" Thor insisted. "We can't just leave him like that."

Kayembe joined the argument, in whatever language it was he spoke natively—clearly not French. Whatever it was, Thor seemed to understand it, too. She assumed that was an Asgardian thing. 

The dying man reached up to grab Nat's hand. He whispered something to her urgently. She didn't know the words, but she knew the look on his face and it wasn't saying "save me." It was saying "end this." She glanced at Rogers, who nodded.

She took a deep breath and pulled a knife out of her jacket. "Someone take her out of here," she said over her shoulder.

"No. No!" Out of the corner of her eye she saw Loki pick his wife up and carry her bodily out the door. 

When Nat was sure the other woman was out of sight she squeezed the injured man's hand and help up the knife. He nodded and she brought it down, slicing his throat cleanly. She and Rogers moved back quickly to avoid the blood. Beside her, Rogers quietly said a prayer.

She felt warm fingers touch the back of her neck. She could tell by the calluses who they belonged to. She hadn't seen him come in—she hadn't seen him since he was roof hopping on the courtyard outside. Yet somehow, right now, when she needed him most, he was standing at her back.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Rogers stood. Nat reached back and took Clint's hand, letting him pull her to her feet. "The stone is probably in the safe," she said quietly. "Stark, you have anything that'll get into that or should we take the whole thing?"

He came closer and peered at it. "How fragile is that stone? I don't want to blow it up."

Thor leaned over, too. "Won't matter, I'm fairly certain the safe is uru. The hammer won't hurt it, as we all saw."

"I can crack it," Clint said. 

Thor straightened. "If I can't break it with the hammer, there's nothing—"

"I said crack. It's a combination lock. I can get in unlocked and open it like normal but _not_ in this room.” He gestured at the body piles. 

"Right," Stark said. He heaved the safe up and turned, Thor and Kayembe jumping out of the way. He took out half the doorframe on the way out.

Kayembe came towards her, and both Clint and Rogers shifted so they were between him and her. The man gave them a very exasperated look, and Nat pushed Clint—who was easier to move—out of the way. The dark man took her hands, and said, " _Merci._ "

She gave his hands a squeeze and nodded. She didn't know how much French he knew, but she asked him if he wanted to come with them, adding some hand gestures in an effort to get the point across. She even gestured to Rogers and him a few times, trying to explain he had touched the stone as well.

He shook his head. He told her he would stay here. To put what had been done to him to use helping his people. Much like Rogers had turned on the English scientists that had made him. People never learned. 

When they reached the courtyard, it was littered with bodies, and the captives that hadn't fled were scavenging for weapons. Banner had shrunk back down from The Other One, and was wearing a pair of pants he clearly taken off one of the dead guards.

Kayembe touched her arm, and when she turned he pointed at the building. " _Incendier_."

"What did he say?" Clint asked.

"Burn it," Rogers said. "Burn it all."

Nat looked over at Stark. "You got a flamethrower on that thing?"

"Allow me," said a rough voice to her left. Nat looked over to find a decidedly not-fine looking Syn and a suitably stoic Loki at her side. Nat nodded and gestured at the building.

Syn turned to the building and leaned into Loki before lifting a hand. With a twist of her fingers there was a shower of sparks. In a few moments the whole structure was on fire.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _A Difficult Woman to Impress_


	17. A Difficult Woman to Impress

They'd walked far enough into the jungle it was sufficiently quiet, and then Clint had made Stark put the safe down so he could get it open. It really was for the best they were certain they had the stone before they left. Not a single one of them wanted to come back.

He'd never cracked a safe with an audience, though, and it was remarkably hard to sit there and listen to the subtle sounds of the tumblers while his heart was still pounding. He had to stop for a moment to breath slowly and relax. In that time he heard Stark inquire what the hell he was doing, Nat tell Stark to shut up, and Thor add that lightning was attracted to metal objects—which made him laugh, and definitely helped. 

Finally, the last tumbler fell into place, and the door opened.

Nat, Stark, Rogers and Thor crowded behind him. Sitting in the center of the safe, on top of a small pile of papers and files was a red stone. It was about the size of Nat's fist, the color of a very good ruby, opaque instead of crystal. 

"I would suggest only Thor handle it," Loki said from behind the group. "As he is the only Asgardian here. Unless Miss. Romanova has the urge to attain super powers, of course."

She laughed a little, but it was a very exhausted sound. "Oh, that's right. On women it doesn't kill you. Maybe we'll discuss immortality later."

"You're sure that's it?" Clint asked. Loki, Thor, and Rogers all nodded. "Good." He kicked the safe closed, and spun the dial. "It can stay in its box."

"Call Coulson," Nat told Stark. "If you haven't already. The sooner we're out of this jungle the better."

He banged on his helmet. "The transmitter was damaged in the last fire fight."

She groaned and covered her face with a hand. "Right. Could someone with magic powers please go get our ride?"

Thor didn't say anything, just swung his hammer and took off. Ten minutes later, the airship descended from the clouds and tossed ropes over the side. They were still a distance from the original drop site, but no one wanted to go back for the rest of their gear, which had been set up in case they needed to spend the night in the jungle. All any of them wanted was to get out of there.

Clint hopped up and went over to Loki. "Can I ask you a favor?"

The other man actually allowed a little surprise to show on his face. "What is it?"

"Will you take Natasha up? She doesn't like the ropes."

Loki glanced over at Nat, who was, in fact, eyeing one of the ropes with dismay. "If she wishes. I'm taking Syn up now. I'll return for her in a moment."

"Thank you," he said. He looked over to where Syn was sitting by herself at the base of a tree. "She all right?"

Loki was silent a moment. "I don't know," he said quietly. "She's a good fighter but she has a soft heart. I don't believe she was prepared for what was happening in that building."

Clint tried to think of a time when any kind of brutality surprised him. "We'll be home soon, and then I promise to get Shield out of your hair."

Loki nodded. "Thank you. I believe I'm going to owe her a very long vacation after this." He stepped towards Syn. "I'll be back for Miss. Romanova in a moment."

He nodded, and went back over to Nat, who was still staring at the ropes others had started to climb. "I got you a lift," he said.

She glanced up at the ship, then him. "What?"

"Loki is going to come back and do his magic transport thing."

There was a pause, then she grinned and put her hands on his shoulders. " _Thank you_."

He grinned, thinking idly he shouldn't find her beautiful with blood on her face—but he did and she was. "You are quite welcome."

There was a flash of green next to them and Loki held a hand out to Nat. She gave Clint another smile before taking the other man's hand. With another flash they were both gone. He sighed, and turned to climb the rope. He was slow, his arms were sore. He had a cut on one bicep he probably should get a bandage for. It wasn't bad, but it was enough to make the climb annoying.

That Rogers was climbing next to him at a similarly slow pace made him feel better. Thor made trips down for Stark and his armor, then the safe, then the rest of their weapons and Banner by the time he and Rogers reached the airship.

In the cabin they found Stark, Thor and Loki debriefing Coulson. Clint decided that was plenty of reporters and took his seat next to Nat as the airship started to glide forward. He wondered if there were too many people in the cabin to put his arm around her. Probably. But he felt an overwhelming urge to touch her. She even looked like she needed it.

She looked over at him and offered a weak smile. "How was the climb?"

He lifted a shoulder. "I may need you to look at my arm when we get back."

Her gaze went to his bicep. "You're hurt? Syn could—"

"Syn has had enough for one day," he said, shaking his head.

She glanced down the row of seats to where the other woman was curled up, watching out the window. Nat's mouth twisted a little and she turned back to Clint. "That was pretty bad. Even by my standards."

He swallowed. "Yeah. Are you all right? I know you're generally accustomed to killing people, but. . ."

"I'm all right. He didn't—he deserved a little mercy, after all that." She leaned her head on Clint's shoulder. "It was the right thing to do."

Screw them. He shifted so he could put his arm around her. "I know. It's good you were there to do it."

"You could have done it, if I hadn't."

"True. But you did it with compassion." He'd have done it from across the room. Nat had managed to do it while holding the man's hand. It was a level of courage he didn't think he had.

She sighed and slumped, relaxing into his side as the steel went out of her spine. "Thanks for having my back," she said softly.

He bent his head and kissed her hair. "I will always have your back."

She reached over and took his hand, lacing her fingers with hers. "Me, too."

It took them longer to get back than it had to fly in. Thor was too tired to mess with the weather, and the darkness made caution a good idea. Most of them were so tired they fell asleep right there on the benches, including himself and Nat. One moment he was listening to the thrum of the engine, the next thing he knew someone was shaking him awake, and the sky had turned pink with dawn.

Stark was doing the shaking. "We're at the ship. Ladders are down and we need everyone off before I take the balloon down." A glance around told Clint they were the last ones in the cabin. He _had_ been asleep.

Clint rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. I'm up."

"Don't worry about it. I'm only upright long enough to get this thing stowed and then I'm sleeping until we hit London."

"That sounds magnificent." He turned and looked down at Nat, asleep on his shoulder. He wished he could carry her down without waking her, but she'd probably kill him for the spectacle. So he rubbed her back. "Honey."

She stirred, making a noise that was almost a growl. "What?"

"We're back at the ship. The big one. Time to get off."

"Mmm, that is an acceptable reason for waking me." She sat up and rubbed her face. "Ladders, right? No ropes?"

"Ladders. And not very high." He stood, and held out his hand. "Come on."

She put her hand in his and he tugged her up, leading her out of the cabin to the ladders. He watched a moment to make sure she was steady, the preceded her down, with the thought of catching her if she slipped.

When she landed on the deck, he put his hand on the small of her back. "I'll walk you down to your cabin."

Any protest she might have made was ruined by the enormous yawn she gave. "Okay," she muttered. He shifted around to her other side, so if she leaned on him she wouldn't touch the arm that had gotten cut, because it was throbbing quite a bit. He lifted a hand to wave to Stark before they made their way inside.

Her bunk was two before his. He leaned on the wall beside the door, waiting for her to unlock it. When she had it open she looked up at him. "You want me to take a look at your arm?"

"Maybe. Yes. I'd hate to get gangrene." Also it hurt, and was hard to reach.

"That would make using the bow hard," she agreed. She stepped into her room and he followed. She went digging in her cupboards while he took a seat. He didn't know if it was because he was tired or if she really did have more comfortable chairs in her bunk.

He tried rolling up his sleeve and found it completely stuck to the wound. So instead he took off his leather vest and began cutting his shirt with his knife. Didn't work as well as expected, clearly he'd used it too much in the battle and it had dulled. "Do you have scissors?"

She joined him at the table, carrying a little bag. She opened it and started taking out first aid implements. One of them was a pair of sharp silver scissors which she brandished. "Shirt stuck?"

"Yes." He held his hand out for the scissors, but she shook her head and came over to cut the sleeve free. "Can you cut down the side, too, so I can pull it off without having to go over the arm?"

Without a word, she finished the sleeve and sliced down the side of the shirt. When she was done she put the scissors down and helped him peel the cloth off. "Do you have any other injuries?" she asked, giving him a quick once over.

"Just the usual bruises and splinters. You?"

She shook her head, moving to peer at his arm. "I spent a good chunk of the battle picking locks with Loki. Managed to miss some of the violence." She put a cloth soaked in hot water on it, to soften the dried blood and make it easier to pull the fabric off.

"I don't think it's deep," he commented. "Just long." Then he added, "You did almost get decapitated with a machete. But I got him."

Her brows went up and she glanced at him. He'd suspected she hadn't noticed. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Rogers said you got the guy with the shield, too."

He touched the side of her neck, where her pulse beat. "Right here. Nobody ever looks up."

She grinned and took the hot cloth off his arm. "I do," she said, peeling up the edge of his sleeve. She watched his face for a reaction, but the water had done its work and it came off with barely a twinge. She dropped the blood soaked fabric on the table and started cleaning the wound gently.

"You do," he replied. "It's why you're alive and we're having this conversation." Trying to imagine his life if he had killed her that day seemed nearly impossible. It would be much darker, and much more alone. Maybe he would be dead himself. They'd saved each other more times than he could count.

"Of course, looking up the wrong way still gives you the neck as a target." She inspected the wound. "It could probably use stitches but I don't have any anesthetic. How do you feel about a scar?"

He grinned. "You can stitch it, Natasha. I'm a big boy."

She dug a needle and silk out of her bag. "You sure you're not showing off for me?"

That made him laugh. "After all these years, is there anything I could do that would impress you anymore?"

She measured out a long length of thread and dragged her chair closer so she could work. "I don't know. I'm sure there's something. You still manage to surprise me now and then."

He grit his teeth as she started stitching. "Sounds like. . .a . . .challenge," he got out. Fuck, that hurt. He saw her glance at him, but, to her credit, she didn't ask him if he was sure. She just bent her head and finished as quickly and precisely as possible.

When it was stitched she cleaned off the fresh blood and started bandaging it. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. "I asked you to. And the whole thing could have been much worse."

"Still." She tied the bandage off and dropped a kiss on it. "Don't like hurting you."

There was something intense, and very honest in her voice when she said that. He supposed the events of the last 24 hours were just the sort of thing that stripped away any artifice one might have. He tugged on her arm, pulling her until she climbed into his lap and he could wrap his arms around her.

Her breath came out in a rush and she tucked her head under his chin, sliding her arms around him. Sometimes he forgot how small she was. She was so strong and tough and generally fearless. She gave off an aura that was bigger then herself. That she could handle anything that was thrown at her. And usually, she managed to make him feel like he could handle anything, too. He rubbed her back and he kissed her hair. "It's over," he whispered. "We're going home."

She lifted a hand and touched his jaw, then stroked along the line of his neck. "I know. I just. . . think I'm gonna be having some nightmares after this one."

The back of her neck was tense, and he rubbed it to try and help her relax. "It happens to all of us," he told her. She was so afraid sometimes of being weak.

He could almost hear her brow go up. "You have nightmares?"

"Of course I do." Some of this earliest memories were his parents being murdered. He'd never slept well. "I think I was an adult before I realized most people in fact didn't see blood and screaming when they went to bed at night. They come and go. They fade. I think they're how the mind processes horrors outside normal expectation. Sorts them out, files them away. Unpleasant to watch, but a necessary process."

Her hand had wandered to the back of his head, fingers twining into his hair. "I had them a lot as a child and during training. Then they stopped. Or I stopped remembering them. Working for Shield, with you, has helped. Horror shared is easier to handle, I suppose."

"You make everything about my life better," he told her.

She lifted her head a little and he looked down at her face. Her eyes were red rimmed but he didn't see any evidence of tears on her cheeks. She lifted her other hand to touch his cheek, then tipped his chin up and kissed him.

It was a gentle kiss, but it didn't stay that way. He buried a hand in her hair, holding her head still so he could deepen the kiss. The stress, the fear, the intensity of the day all came flooding back, and right then he needed her more than he'd ever needed anything. To his immense relief she responded in kind, opening her mouth and tugging on his lower lip with her teeth. Her hands roamed down his back, nails dragging along his skin as she explored him.

It was a little tragic that, for once, she was not wearing a dress or skirt. There were no shortcuts. So he pulled her torn and blood-spattered shirt out of the waistband of her trousers. It had lots of little buttons, far more than he had patience for, so he he ripped it open. She shrugged out of it without comment. 

She wasn't wearing a corset, just a long strip of fabric wrapped around her breasts to hold them down. Before he could try to find the end she grabbed the scissors off the table again and sliced through the layers. The remains of the binding fluttered to the ground as she tossed the scissors back.

For years, he had thought about helping her out of an elaborate gown, peeling through all the many layers of fabric beneath, slowly unlacing her satin corset—he knew she had one that was red, so he always pictured that one—and sliding away the thin silk or linen that was still between him and her skin. So the abruptness of this had surprised him, but her breasts were every bit as beautiful as he'd imagined them to be.

He lifted his hand to fill his palm with one, testing its weight. They really were magnificent and the perfect size to fit his hand. She made a quiet little noise as he touched her, leaning into him. She found his mouth with hers again, kissing roughly. She shifted so she straddled him, letting him hold her closer, bare skin against bare skin. He let her control the kiss, while he reached up to take down the braided bun confining her hair.

The braid coiled down her back with a scattering of pins and he used both hands to unweave it, spreading her hair over her back. She lifted her head a little, hands cupping his face. She studied him a moment, looking as if she couldn't believe it was really him. Then she smiled and kissed him again, first his mouth, then down his jaw, feather light.

He didn't say anything, half afraid the moment would shatter if he did. He braced his good arm beneath her and stood, carrying her over to her bed. He set her down gently and she covered his bandage with a concerned hand, managing to scold him with her frown. He grinned and kissed her lightly, then turned to remove his boots. The bottom halves of both their outfits were full of straps and holsters and hidden weapons, and best removed independently. 

She sat beside him, peeling off her own boots and unstrapping her weapons. A small arsenal grew on the floor as they both disarmed. She started to giggle when the third knife hit the ground. She flopped back on the bed, undoing the fastening of her pants, still laughing at the ridiculous amount of weapons they had between them. 

He stopped to watch her lift her hips and slide the fabric down. He supposed it was logical that she wouldn't have been able to stuff ruffled, knee-length ladies drawers down those fitted pants, but the fact that she was wearing a pair of white cotton men's shorts surprised a laugh out of him. He reached up to untie the drawstring to take them off.

With a ripple of muscle, she lifted her hips again, letting him slide the shorts down her legs, leaving her bare. She shifted, pushing herself further up the bed. Then she looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to join her.

He was going to need to stare for a moment before he could move. No matter how often he imagined her like this, it had not done reality justice. Then he swallowed, shucked the rest of his clothing and crawled up to her. She wound her arms around his shoulders and arched up. She was warm under his hands, soft in all the places he was hard. He felt her mouth on his jaw, his throat, anywhere she could reach. 

Then her legs wound around his, drawing him closer to her heat. He wanted to take his time, to touch and taste every part of her. At the moment, however, his arm was making that difficult. He braced a hand on her waist and rolled them over, so she sprawled out on top of him. She pushed up on her hands and grinned at him. She dropped a kiss on his wounded arm, then his shoulder before sliding down his chest. Her hands roamed him, fingers outlining the lines of his muscle and tracing scars.

Her breasts were perfectly displayed for him again, and he reached up to cup them both in his hands. Rubbing his thumbs across her nipples made them tighten further, and made her shudder. "You are an enchantress," he told her. "Right now I would give you anything you asked."

She sat up further, hands bracketing his hips. "You haven't seen anything yet, _moi pitchka_." She'd nestled herself against his erection, just enough it was getting nearly impossible to pay attention to anything else. Someday, though, he was going to have ask her what that nickname she'd given him meant. The first time she'd used it it had been mocking, but it had long become familiar and tender. He really didn't want to find out it was some sort of Russian insult.

Her fingers curled around his cock, effectively ending all higher thought. She stroked him a few times from root to tip, apparently just to torment him. She sighed softly. "I did want to taste you," she said regretfully. "But I don't think either of us have the patience."

"Likewise," he growled. "Next time." But he was going to let her be in control. Something within his not-entire-functioning brain told him he should.

With a roll of her hips she set the tip of him at her entrance. She braced her hands on his chest and slowly slid down the length of him. The slick, hot feel of her enveloping him made everything else fade for a moment, and pushed the very limits of his self control. He gripped her hips to hold her still, hard enough to send pain shooting down his left arm. Which, actually, was helpful. He drew in a breath and looked up at her.

She was flushed, hair wild around her face. She grinned widely and arched a brow. "Okay?"

He chuckled hoarsely. "That's not at all an adequate word." She gave his stomach a comforting pat. Then she started to move, ever so slowly. Watching her move, the smooth shift of muscle under skin, was almost as enjoyable as the feel of her moving around him. His hands roamed over her, exploring her skin, finding where her sensitive spots were. He wanted to have her memorized. He pushed on the middle of her back, so she would lean forward enough for him to capture a nipple in his mouth. That or the change of angle prompted her to miss her rhythm and make a sound of pleasure.

Her strokes were rougher after that, less focused. He let her feel his teeth and she gave a little cry, whispering his name. He felt her grow hotter around him and knew she was close. Her hand found one of his and wove their fingers together, pressing him down into the bed as she thrust herself on him and gasped, clenching around him.

There was a very dim thought that he ought to pull out, but that wasn't happening. Her and her orgasm squeezing him was about all he could take. He managed only to pull her head down to kiss her as he let go.

She sank down on top of him, boneless, and nuzzled at his neck, murmuring in content. He stroked her damp back, enjoying the fog of pleasure and relaxation. He was fairly certain he felt better than he had in years.

There were a hundred things he wanted to tell her. But he couldn't seem to find the words, or any words at all. He hoped she understood. And they had time.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _A Lover’s Quarrel and a Long Awaited Homecoming_


	18. A Lover’s Quarrel and a Long Awaited Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olive has created a lovely and fantastic banner for this story. Please go back to Chapter 1 to see it in all its glory. Then heap your praises upon her. (Because it was a lot of work.)
> 
> This is the last chapter of part 3. Part 4 should start on Wed, but there maybe a slight delay. No later than next Saturday.
> 
> Enjoy!

Nat slept about as deeply as it was possible to sleep. She had a vague recollection of Clint getting up and telling her he was going back to his room, but she couldn't really remember why. By the time she was awake for real, it was midday, and her cabin was quiet and empty. She didn't imagine anyone would be playing on the deck today.

She sat up slowly, wincing at all the many aches and pains she had, including one between her legs. That one, at least, made her smile. She could still smell Clint in her sheets. That had been a very nice way to end a battle. To prove they were alive. 

Maybe she could sneak in a bath for her aches and pains. Maybe Clint could join her.  
 She was swinging her legs out of bed when she realized she had forgotten something very, very important the night before. "Oh, _shit_ ," she muttered.

Across the room was her steamer trunk, and she got up and opened it, finding the compartment she kept it in and opened the small wood box. There her diaphragm sat, where it had been sitting for quite a while—long enough she'd stopped thinking about it. She hadn't expected to need it on this trip.

She tucked it away again and sat, rubbing her face. Well, at least it was Clint. Clint was practical, she knew him, she liked him. She'd just go talk to him—or should she wait till she knew it was a problem or not? Maybe she should just take care of it herself. Maybe Syn would be able to tell. No, that was not something she wanted to ask Syn.

This was getting her nowhere. She used the edge of the trunk to haul herself to her feet. "Bath," she said out loud. "Food. Clint. In that order."

The bath—in her private bathroom, because that was how fantastic this ship was—felt very nice on her sore muscles. The dining room was quiet, populated only by Rogers, who was sitting in there reading a book while eating something. Lunch was long cold, but it was tasty.

Rogers, to her relief, wasn't feeling chatty. She ate her food quickly, grabbed a hunk of bread to go and made her way to Clint's bunk, knocking lightly on the off chance he was still asleep.

All that came back from the inside was a displeased sounding, "What?"

She looked skyward. That didn't bode well. "It's Nat. I come bearing bread."

"You can come in," he called. She pushed opened the door, and he was in his hammock. "I hate this ship and everything on it." He paused. "Except for you."

She drew one of his chairs over to the hammock so he wouldn't have to get up. "I'm glad I'm the exception," she said. "Do you want my offering or shall I leave it on the table?"

"A little bit of something in my stomach does help." He looked over at her and smiled, the sort that made her feel warm inside, and helped the knot in her stomach loosen a little. "Sorry I snuck out."

"I figured you had good reason for it. Though I admit to not being entirely awake at the time." She handed him the bread and leaned back in her chair. "I do have a small problem. Maybe I should wait until you're upright again."

He frowned at her. "You look worried."

She didn't fidget, but it was an effort. "I forgot my prophylactic last night."

There was silence. Well, she listened to him inhale slowly, and blow the breath out. "I should have asked. I'd like to say I assumed, but the only thought I gave to it, honestly, was wondering if I should pull out when it was a half second too late." He took a bite of the bread, then looked at her. "It will be all right."

Her brows went up. This was far more mellow then she had expected him to be. "It will?"

He sighed, and tipped his head back. "If I'm honest, part of the reason I kept the house in San Francisco is because I thought you might eventually have yourself an accident, and need a place to go. We'd retire and I'd teach him or her to walk and shoot straight and hopefully not grow up to rob Wells Fargo." He opened his eyes. "That it will actually _be_ mine is a delightful surprise."

Admittedly, the picture he pained was kind of sweet. They would make an adorable child. Tough, fearless, charming. But she was having a bit of a watershed moment and his utter relaxation was grating. "You've been surreptitiously planning for me to get pregnant?"

"Planning isn't the right word, but I do prepare for eventualities."

"I really thought—I didn't expect you to be this blasé about it."

He sat up. "I am not blasé. This is just how I do things. Panic is not useful. Especially about things that are unstoppable realities. Someone will have to raise that child and give it a name."

"It's not unstoppable," she said quietly. "I don't even know if I am. . . that. And if I am there's ways around it."

He stared at her. "You have any idea how dangerous that is?"

This was not how she'd wanted this to go. "I know exactly how dangerous it is."

He looked at her, and she waited for him to ask. She couldn't imagine why a professional assassin would have a strong opinion on something like this—but you could never tell. People were funny, and he had some sort of internal code about what he did, of the sort she'd never had the opportunity to create. But all he said was, "In this case, you don't need to."

She looked down at her hands. Maybe she should just drop it. Talk about it again when it was actually a problem. But she was pretty sure they'd gone too far to back out now. "Do you have any idea how dangerous childbirth is? Mrs. Stark is an exception, not a rule."

"And yet we have a magic midwife on staff." He paused. "You don't want any children?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I never thought about it. I was trained to believe it was a not an option and the idea still sets off an instinctive negative reaction. I'm trying to work around that because I know it's not. . . me." She rubbed her temple. "I thought we could talk about it but you appear to have made up your mind, despite the fact you aren't the one carrying it and pushing it out."

He took another slow breath, in and out. "I haven't. . . how many options are there? Was there one where you have a baby and tote it around on this ship? One where we just fuck recreationally and never make any real decisions?" 

"Well, I thought we might get to fuck more then once before having to make this particular decision."

He leaned back in the hammock for a moment. "You're always looking for the right time for things. There is no right time. There's just when shit happens."

That was probably true. She liked to be in control. Things that were out of control needed to be brought under control as soon as possible. She'd thought it would be okay if she didn't over think this. If she just let it happen, the way it had last night. Obviously not. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," she muttered.

He sat up again. "You'd really just. . ." He trailed off, and waved a hand vaguely. But she knew what he meant. He looked away and she saw his jaw flex. "Yeah, I guess you would."

"That's not what I—" She sighed and shook her head. Good to know what he thought of her. "There's not even any—it's too soon to know. By several weeks." She stood up. "I will let you know when there's anything worth knowing."

He turned back to her, looking a little alarmed. "Nat. . ." He stopped, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw again. "Later," he ground out. Then he got up and went into his bathroom, slamming the door behind himself.

She scrubbed a hand over her face and left, closing the door gently before heading back to her room.

Nat didn't see him for a few days after that. She made sure the crew brought him tea and toast, but she left him his space, and he didn't emerge. The rest of the group seemed to be in a very jovial mood—the trip home from a successful mission. Some of them, anyway. Stark shut himself up in his lab, and Thor and Loki could be seen having serious conversations here and there. But mostly, it was celebration and relaxation. Since she felt like neither, she avoided them all.

Then one afternoon, while she was sitting on the deck by herself, trying to read and not think, Clint dropped into the chair beside her. He looked as bad as she felt. Maybe worse.

She marked her spot in the book and closed it. "Hi," she said softly.

"Hello." He took a breath. "Look. Clearly the other night was a mistake. Maybe we just weren't meant to. . ." He shook his head and looked away. "But you are my closest friend. We can't just never speak again."

She chewed her lip. "I wasn't—I just thought we both needed a little space. I wasn't planning to never speak to you again."

He sighed. "You know what I mean."

"I know." She glanced over at him. "I'm sorry."

His voice was very level, so much so she knew it was deliberate. He had a certain way of breathing when he was trying to make himself still so he could shoot accurately, and she could hear it now. "You think we could just put it behind us?" 

No, she really didn't. There was a good reason they had dodged it so thoroughly and for so long. But another fight wasn't going to help anybody. So she said, "I can do that."

She watched a number of emotions pass over his face. Half a dozen things she could see he wanted to say. But none of them came out. All he said was, "If you need anything from me about the other thing, you'll let me know?"

She nodded sharply. "Of course. I promise."

He was quiet for a long moment, before saying, "I'm sorry."

Hesitantly, she reached over to take his hand. She hated this. She had never questioned them before. They had been friends a long time. He was her only real friend, in some ways. She hated the idea she wouldn't be welcome to touch him. "It's all right."

He flinched a little, but then he turned his hand and laced their fingers together. "It isn't. But I'll fix it."

Is this what it was going to be like now? Awkward silences and words that didn't mean anything. No, surely some time would soften the edges. "We'll be home soon. In London. It'll be nice to have this adventure behind us."

She heard him sigh, and he seemed to relax a little. "That does sound nice. Sleep in my own bed, on solid ground. I miss solid ground."

"We haven't had nearly enough solid ground this month," she agreed.

"In more ways than one." She turned to look at him, but before she could say anything, he tugged on her hand. "I was going to go get some food. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," she said, grabbing her book with her free hand as he pulled her to her feet.

He let go of her hand, and seemed careful not to touch her as they went inside. She supposed it was going to be that way for a while.

*

Tony had been working on this metal for a week now.

The length of chain he'd brought back from the compound in the Congo was stretched across the table in his lab. He'd run every test he could think of, even taking it down to the boiler room to see if he could ascertain it's melting point. He couldn't, but they did get the furnaces so hot the picked up three extra knots of speed.

Thor and Loki and Coulson all came to discuss the result with him and Banner once all their tests were done. So far, they were the only people he'd seen all week. 

"I am now 110% certain this metal was neither mined nor constructed on this planet—we simply do not have a capabilities, and it has no traces of anything known. . . anywhere." Tony pointed at Thor's hammer. "Except that."

"So it is uru," Loki said. "I told you it was."

"We like science," Tony replied. He looked at Coulson. "We need to show Fury now."

Loki muttered, "Science," under his breath in the same tone Tony would have muttered "magic" a few years ago.

Coulson ignored him. "What exactly will we be telling Fury?"

"That _someone ___is supplying the Belgians with an indestructible alien metal." Obviously.

Coulson rubbed his head with a sigh. "That's—that's not helpful, really."

"It's all I got." Tony paused. "Now would be an excellent time for those who know something about other planets to contribute any additional information they might have."

Loki and Thor exchanged a look that confirmed once and for all they were brothers. Thor gestured grandly at Stark and Loki heaved the most put upon sigh in existence. "Uru is found mostly in Nidavellir, though there are a few other realms that are known to have it. The dwarves are an insular, crotchety people who want nothing to do with inter realm issues." He shrugged. "Without more information we can't begin to figure out where it came from."

"All right," Coulson said. "I'll brief Fury. We're going to be in London in less than a day, and he's going to need to brief the Prime Minister. We need more information. Or we're going to spend our first few days home locked in small rooms getting interrogated by assholes."

"Goodness, that sounds unpleasant," Loki deadpanned.

"Isn't your purpose to get information?" Tony asked. "Isn't that what you do?"

"You act as if I can conjure it from thin air."

"Some things you can," Banner commented. "Ice. Knives. Beer."

"Hey, the beer was awesome," Tony said.

"I'm going to talk to Fury," Coulson said with a sigh, and went out.

Tony watched him go. "He seems particularly. . ." He waved a hand around. "More than usual."

"Well," Banner said. "We did sort of uncover a new problem while solving the first one."

"There is someone who might have some answers," Loki said thoughtfully.

Tony had started making notes on his latest experiment. "Don't say Leopold. You said he was an idiot."

"He is an idiot but I still imagine he knows where he was getting his alien goods from."

"I think we will definitely need to talk to Fury before staging another incursion into Belgium," he replied. "Fun as that sounds."

Thor looked over at Loki. "We could go." 

"You know, that is true," Loki said brightly, as if he hadn't thought of it himself. "We are not, technically, beholden to Fury and his rules."

"It's really only out of courtesy." He grinned. "We shall go from London, once I have brought the stone to Jane."

"Agreed. That should take precedent." Tony thought he might actually be sincere about that.

Fury crashed into the room a few moments later, making them repeat everything they knew. Thor and Loki innocently claimed they had some sources they would run down, but provided no specifics.

By that point, he was able to escape the circular conversation, as their docking point of Southampton had been sighted, and Tony had a great deal to do. Some of his equipment would be loaded into a train car, and the rest—like the airship—would remain either a permanent part of the ship, or be brought back to New York.

He wanted all of it to stay on the ship, because he wanted to go home. See his family. But something, it seemed, was brewing.

Everyone began to disembark, and he leaned on the rails by the gangplank, watching people. Thor had put on a normal suit, which looked too tight and indicated he needed a better tailor. Syn had one one of her fancy, fashionable dresses. Which was a little too bad, those leggings had been interesting.

Rogers came by, carrying the uru shield. "Hey, that's supposed to stay in the lab," Tony told him.

He glanced down at it. "I was hoping to keep it," he said, sounding a bit like Charlie when he found a lizard in the garden. "Was handy in the fight."

"Did you run that by, you know, management?"

"I was just going to sneak it out and look at them threateningly if they tried to stop me."

Tony considered that. "Yeah, okay. I can get behind that."

Rogers grinned at him and headed towards the gangplank. Well, if he kept it maybe he'd still let Tony experiment on it sometime.

Banner got off with a box of stuff. Barton and Romanova got off separately. Apparently their lover's quarrel was still going on. He didn't want to be sexist, but this was exactly the sort of thing that people—

"Hi Pretty Lady!" shrieked a very familiar voice from behind him. He turned around in surprise and there, on the pier at the bottom of their long gangplank, was his family. 

Romanova stopped to hug Charlie when she reached him, though what Tony could see of her face was kind of heartbreaking. He didn't have time to think about that, because he was busy getting his own ass down to the dock.

He hugged Pepper so hard he spun her around. "What are you doing here?"

She leaned up to kiss him. "I wrote Natasha's doctor. About the _thing_. He said he couldn't mail one to the United States. So I thought I'd come meet you, and see the doctor. So I could pick it up and you wouldn't have to do the other thing that annoys you so."

He laughed. Talking about intimate affairs was not her strong suit. He wasn't sure the other thing, as she put it, actually worked, or he wouldn't have ended up getting married at 19. "I have never been happier to see you all in my life."

Little hands had begun tugging on his coat, and he crouched down to hug as many of them at once as he could—which wasn't all of them, but he'd get there. There wasn't anything on earth that chased the awful horror in the jungle away quite like this crush of arms and hair-bows and sticky little faces.

He gave Charlie an especially tight hug, once the kid was done sucking up to Romanova. He tried not to have favorites, but the fact his son was standing here able to hug him was a miracle he still hadn't gotten over. Finally he stood and kissed Pepper again. "Come on. Let's all get lunch and you can tell me about your trip here."

Charlie tugged on his hand. "Daddy, I saw the magic lady, too. She gave me a kiss."

That made him grin. "She's a very nice lady," he replied, herding them into one of the two carriages that Pepper had needed to get them down here.

"Daddy?" he called again, while Tony was trying to get two of his daughters to stop fighting over a hat and get in the carriage. He sighed. Charlie was only his favorite some of the time.

"Yes, Charlie?" he asked, a little tiredly

"When I'm a grown up, can I have more than one wife?"

Pepper turned to look at Charlie in horror, and Tony snorted with laugher. Yeah, okay. Charlie was definitely his favorite.

* * *

**End Part 3**

To be continued in our next installment: _A Song of Broken Hearts and Stolen Kings_


	19. A Song of Broken Hearts and Stolen Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Part the Fourth and Final**
> 
>  
> 
> _“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” - The Tempest Act I Scene II_

Of course. The Stark children were here.

Clint hadn't thought anything could spoil his brief moment of dry-land-based joy, but that would definitely do it. Somebody else and their adorable, happy family.

He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking he was a grade A jackass for thinking that. Then he turned and caught sight of Natasha standing further down the dock, watching them with a sad, wistful expression on her face. Well, at least he wasn't alone in his thoughts.

Nat caught him looking and her cheeks reddened. She looked away from him and the Starks and scooped up the bag she'd dropped to hug Charlie. She glanced back at the ship before straightening her shoulders and walking towards the carriages waiting for them.

She climbed into one, and left him with the awkward decision of getting in a carriage with her—his default choice for the last six years—or conspicuously getting in a different carriage. At this point he wasn't sure which would provoke less curious looks. And then they had a nice train ride, where he could waffle over where to sit.

He could walk to London. How far could it be? At least it wouldn't make him nauseous.

_Man up, Barton._ He walked across the dock and got into the same carriage she had.

She glanced up when he got settled and looked happy, but unsurprised which he took as a good sign. "Got your flask?" she asked.

"Do I," he said, pulling it out and handing it over. The moment felt. . . very normal, passing it back and forth.

She took a deep swig as they lurched forward. "I've never been so happy to see England."

"I don't know that I quite consider it home," he said. "But I am glad to be here." He wasn't entirely sure where he considered home. It wasn't Texas. Maybe it was San Francisco.

If he was very honest, it was probably anywhere she happened to be.

"I've always felt the same," she admitted. "London's a hard place to put down roots. I've been gone so long this time I hope I remember where my flat is."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she could stay with him, but he didn't know if he could or should say that anymore. But he was getting better at not letting the awkward pause drag on. "Someone must have a list."

"That's true. Fury probably has them all under surveillance."

"That is both not funny and very true."

She grinned. "I put nothing past him."

He took the flask back from her to take a drink. "I was thinking I'd take a little time off, bum around the English countryside. People keep telling me it's beautiful. It was really nice up by where Thor lives. Assuming they've rebuilt the smashed buildings."

Nat tipped her head back on the seat. "It was very calm up there," she agreed. "Calm would be a nice change of pace after the last month or so."

"Wouldn't it? I believe there's going to be a wedding of some sort in the parish church. I'm sure we'll be invited."

Her eyes widened. "Oh God. Won't that be interesting. You'll be able to tell bride's side and groom's side easily."

The carriage came to a halt in front of the train station. He, in fact, could have walked. But it had been worth it. They were talking. He just needed to not be doing stupid things like picturing her in a wedding dress while they were talking about this subject.

He climbed out and offered her a hand out. She took it gingerly, but it wasn't as hard to be touching her this time. Someday maybe he could do it casually again. He scooped up her bag before she could grab it and she shook her head indulgently before following him towards the train.

They were quiet on the train to London, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Also good, he supposed. He'd hate to have to always spew out chatter. It would make them hate each other fairly quickly.

Coulson made the rounds on the train to tell everyone there would be a briefing in the morning, and then they were turned loose at Waterloo Station to do as they saw fit. While they waited for their trunks and crates to be unloaded from the baggage car, he wondered how the rest of the day would have gone if they weren't all upside down. Maybe they'd bait some robbers, drink themselves silly, go home and—

No. He was not thinking about that.

"Do you want to share a hack while I remember where I live?" she asked him, eyeing their pile of trunks.

"I know exactly where you live," he replied. "Though I was actually going to let them take my stuff over to headquarters and get it tomorrow. I don't really feel like going home." For whatever definition of home his sparse flat represented.

The look she gave him was concerned, but she didn't press. "Going to enjoy having solid ground underneath you for a while?"

"Yes. I think I'll go for a walk. But I will also haul your trunks to the hack and give the driver your address."  
 She smiled. "Thanks, Clint."

There was a pub across the street from the train station. He noticed it as he got her into her hack. He decided a drink was in order, before he went on his walk.

That was the last thing he remembered for a while.

He woke up on an uncomfortable sofa, in a strange hotel room. 

Well, this was probably bad. He sat up swiftly, then groaned, putting a hand to his head. This was a whole new level of hangover. Definitely bad.

"Oh good, you're up," came a thankfully familiar voice. There was Rogers, emerging from what Clint assumed was the bathroom.

"How did I end up in your hotel room?"

"I brought you here after you passed out in the alley next to the pub," Roger said, coming around the couch so Clint didn't have to twist his head anymore. "You don't remember?"

He rubbed his forehead. "I think I recall there being a lot of scotch."

"Well. . . you started with scotch."

"Yeah." He stood up, feeling unsteady but not as bad as he'd feared. He needed some coffee and a shave. "Thanks for bringing me here."

"It's no problem. I'd have dumped you at home but I don't know where that is. Or Miss Romanova's."

" _That_ wouldn't have gone over well."

"Yeah, I figured she was probably the cause of the scotch." Rogers tilted his head. Clint could tell he wanted to ask him if he was okay, or if he wanted to talk. But neither of them was that kind of guy.

He wondered if he'd said something that had indicated it was about her, or it was simply that obvious.

It was probably obvious. "I do occasionally see the advantages of the girl-in-every-port lifestyle. This shit never happens."

"Sure it does," Rogers said. He leaned over to pick up the receiver of his telephone. He requested coffee and eggs be brought up, God bless him. Then he continued, "One of them gets you eventually, and gives you a reason to drink yourself stupid."

And if they were the sort of people who talked, they might even have a useful conversation. Might make him feel better. Sometimes, he envied women.

Breakfast came, and the eggs seemed to help settle his stomach. The coffee woke him up. All he needed now was a shave and a clean shirt. "What was her name?" he asked Rogers as he drained his coffee cup. 

"Margaret. She was way too good for me." There was enough sadness in his voice to sink an ocean liner.

"Yeah." He sighed again. "You have a shirt I could borrow? We have a meeting."

He pointed to the bedroom. "Help yourself." Clint stood and got halfway to the door before Rogers added, "It does get easier. But not if you see her everyday."

Instinct told him that was true. Wounds didn't heal if you kept picking at the scab. He should go to San Francisco. He could dig up his gold. Then maybe burn that house to the ground.

*

Nat hadn't slept well. Her London apartment had felt foreign and uncomfortable. It had never occurred to her that she had gotten used to her bunk on the steamer, but right now that felt far more like home then her well appointed flat. Maybe it was time for a change of scenery.

So she was not in the best of moods when she arrived at headquarters, a full hour before she had to be. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just disappeared. Ran off into the shadows without a forwarding address. Shield wouldn't know where to start looking for her.

No, that wasn't true. They'd just send Clint.

She took another flight of stairs down, and started down an empty hallway. She only got a few feet before Loki materialized in front of her. "There you are."

"Jesus," she muttered, putting a hand on the wall. She was never going to get used to that. "You were looking for me?"

"I was. No one knows where you live. Where's Barton?"

Well, good to know no one would ever come knocking. "I don't know," she grumbled. "I don't live with him."

He held up his hands, and his face said 'Do not drag me into your personal drama.' Instead, he put an arm around her, said "I need your skills," and the light and dizziness came.

She had noticed that when the travel was voluntary—like heading up to the air ship—he politely offered a hand. When it was _his_ idea she got hauled around like a sack of flour.

When her head cleared she found herself in a small room. Coulson and Thor were looming over the King of Belgium, who was chained to a chair. She sighed. "I'm actually not that good with painful interrogation. And I doubt he'll believe I'm seducing him."

Coulson looked up. "He asked for you."

"I thought she'd be wearing a better dress," Leopold said, sounding petulant.

Well, maybe he'd be a good outlet for her anger. "If my appearance is disappointing I can poke your eyes out."

He looked away, and she sighed. She leaned over to Loki. "Does management know we've got a foreign head of state chained in the basement?"

He cleared his throat. "No."

"Does your wife know torture was on your morning's to do list?"

"I may have skimmed over some—" He stopped. "Oh, that's a wonderful idea." He disappeared and she couldn't help jumping a little. Seriously, that was never going to be all right.

He reappeared a few moments later with Syn at his side. She was making a disgusted face. "But I don't _want_ to touch him."

"Please, dear heart. It will make it so much easier."

Coulson rubbed his head. "I can't believe no one thought of that."

"You can't make me talk," Leopold insisted. Thor made an angry noise and flipped his hammer around.

"Okay," Nat said. "Everyone out. Except for Syn and I."

Loki started to protest but Syn gave him a shove towards the door. Thor and Coulson didn't look any happier. "You have ten minutes to get something," Coulson told Nat. "Then we're back in here."

She restrained from rolling her eyes, but it was a near thing. "Fine." She pointed to the door until the men had filed out. She turned to Syn. "Do your thing."

"I think I'd prefer the torture," she muttered. But she walked over and placed her hand on the king's shoulder.

Nat dragged over a chair and sat in it. "Where did the metal come from?"

Leopold's teeth grit together as he tried to resist answering. Syn shifted, pressing into his shoulder. "Oh, just answer. The compulsion gets worse with time and I don't want to know what kind of things you'd like to confess."

"An alien," he blurted out.

"What was his name, and what did he want?"

"He didn't tell me his name. He told me that I could build an army of soldiers with extraordinary powers, who would be like Gods. I could rule the known world."

She sighed, and Syn shook his shoulder. "That's what he promised you. What did he want as payment for this army?"

He seemed to think about that. "Subservience. I would rule the earth, and answer to him. Provide materials. Humans for slave labor. And similar."

"So he's coming to Earth?" Syn asked.

"Yes. Soon. Last I spoke to him he said he was almost ready."

Nat straightened. "You didn't build your army."

Leopold shrugged. "I know. He would have preferred I do the conquering, but he's decided to just come down with his." He waved around. "And here we are, in the very heart of the British Empire. The heart of civilization. Lovely place to start, no?"

She lifted her eyes, and met Syn's, dread crawling up her spine. "He's coming to London?"

"Well, if you're going to conquer a planet you start with best. When London falls the rest of the world will have no chance."

There was a long moment of silence as Nat and Syn stared at each other in shock. Then Syn's face darkened. "Can I hurt him, now?"

Nat held out a hand. "Be my guest." She turned, opened the door to the hallway where Couslon, Thor, and Loki waited.

"Get anything worth telling Fury?" Coulson asked.

She clasped her hands in front of her. "Aliens are going to invade London in the near future."

There was a moment of silence before anyone spoke. "How near?"

A high pitched shriek emerged from the room, and then Syn called out, "Tomorrow."

Loki looked downright proud. Thor shook his head. "This is far, far bigger then the Bride Stone. I know of several expansionist races that might look at Earth as a suitable conquest. Your weapons wouldn't stand a chance against them."

"Fantastic," Coulson muttered.

"You should go talk to Odin," Loki said. Thor looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "It's not like I can go up there. 'Hi there, Pops, sorry about the _coup d'etat_.' "

"You could try a sincere apology."

Loki spread his arms in a grand gesture. "I did, that's how I ended up here."

"We really don't have time for the family drama," Coulson interjected. "You've said Odin considers us under his protection. Maybe he'll agree to send some troops to help us."

"Will you see Jane is safe?" he asked Loki.

"You should take her home with you. Mother will be delighted."

"Yes, and Father won't. I hardly think now is the time to interject that into the discussion. He told me not to marry her."

"Oh, so he doesn't know about the Bride Stone?"

"It's. . . complicated."

"Jesus Christ," Coulson said.

"We'll make sure Jane is safe," Nat assured Thor. "But if you can go you should. We'll need all the help we can get."

There was another shriek from the room and Syn stepped out, looking completely composed. "I think his majesty has given me all the information he has."

Coulson pointed at Loki. "You. Take His Majesty home. Lock him in his own dungeon." He pointed at Thor. "You. Go talk to your father." He turned again and pointed at Syn. "You. Come with me, Fury is going to have to explain this to the Queen, and you seem like her sort of person."

"What do you need from me?" Nat asked, when he didn't point at her.

"Get _everyone_."

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _A Motley Crew of Monsters and Gods Prepare for War_


	20. A Motley Crew of Monsters and Gods Prepare for War

Clint found having something to do very distracting. It was a welcome relief. Yes, there was an imminent invasion coming—an imminent alien invasion, no less—but having a fight to focus on felt far more normal than trying to figure out. . .the other thing.

He wasn't entirely thrilled with the job he was doing at this particular moment, granted. 

"There is no reason for me to get on this train! I can help you."

At this particular moment, he was dragging Thor's wife down a train platform while she yelled at him. 

"We promised him we would put you somewhere safe, and therefore, you are going to Scotland," he told Mrs. . . .Did he even have a last name? Clint didn't have time for those sort of details. He needed to get this woman on this train—that also contained numerous wives and children of the aristocracy, and most of the Royal Family.

"I have Asgardian strength now," she insisted. "Let me help." She stopped walking, so he had to stop, too. She wasn't wrong about her strength.

Why did Coulson give him this task? People were not his strong suit. He eyed her. She was small. Maybe he could just hogtie her and toss her on the train.

What would Nat do in this situation? He was pretty sure anyone married to Thor wasn't going to be swayed by his wiles. Maybe logic would work. She was a school teacher. She probably liked logic. "What kind of combat experience do you have?" he asked her, trying to pitch his voice like he was considering it.

"I've never been in any kind of combat. But I can hit things. I can shoot a gun—a monkey can shoot a shotgun."

He rubbed his brow. Maybe not that. Some of Nat's most successful persuasions, he had noticed, were liberally laced with honesty. "If you stay, you will get Thor killed."

She gaped at him. "That's not true. You can't know that."

 "I can. He will spend the entire battle worrying about you, wondering where you are and if you're safe. Until one of two things happens." He held up a finger. "You get hit and he no longer gives a shit what happens to him. Or," Another finger. "He is so distracted trying to keep any eye on you that he gets hit."

She made a face, but he could see she was at least considering it. She needed to consider it quickly because out of the corner of his eye he could see Stark and his battalion of children heading down the platform. "Jane," he said quietly. "I know because I do it. I know she can handle herself, but I always know where she is, and if she died I wouldn't care if the enemy was going to destroy the planet. Please don't do that to him. Please get on the train."

Jane blew out a breath, scowled, and turned to step on the train, pulling herself into the car without another word.

He turned just in time to see Mrs. Stark coming towards him. "Hello, Mr. Barton," she said with a smile, as if they were meeting in the park.

"Please tell me I don't have to force you onto this train. Because I'm out of persuasion and am just going to get a rope."

She laughed. "No, no. The children and I are getting on. Tony made it very clear how serious the situation was. I just wanted to wish you good luck."

"Well. . . thank you, then. Would you do me a favor and keep and eye on Mrs. of Asgard in there? She's having some trouble."

"Everybody on," Stark said from behind her, herding the children up the step onto the train. He turned with a little girl in a frilly dress in his arms. "Don't worry, she'll have a baby soon and become far more cautious. They do crazy things to people."

Things he hadn't thought about in the chaos. He really ought to talk to Natasha.

Stark and his wife kissed goodbye and they loaded all the kids into the train car with minimal fuss. They were the last of them and Clint and Stark stood back as the train began to spew steam and roll forward.

"I wish they were in New York," Stark said quietly.

He didn't know what made him say, "At least you don't have to spend the battle watching them out of the corner of your eye."

Stark glanced at him. "How do you manage that?"

He shrugged. "Nobody ever looks up."

"Does she know?"

"Nope." Above the station, lighting arced in the sky. Clint looked up. "Thor's back."

Stark slapped him on the back. "Come on. Let's go find out what Papa God said."

Odin, as it turned out, had sent them exactly four soldiers.

"This is not the battalion I had hoped for," Coulson said, in his usual deadpan. Loki and Syn seemed very excited about their new guests, and for a moment the rest of them had to stand around and watch their little reunion. They were all strangely dressed, though he supposed that was usual for Asgard. One was a woman. That would make Nat happy.

"Thor!" barked Fury. "Start. Explaining. Now."

To his credit, the blonde warrior stepped forward and face Fury down. "My father has declined my request for an army. He did not feel the threat was large enough. He has, however, sent my comrades, the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three." The newcomers all bowed to Fury. "They will aid us. Odin has also agreed to monitor the battle and send more aid if he deems necessary."

"Not large enough? I have an alien army coming down on London and all Mr. Uniter of the Realms can spare is four people?"

"Odin isn't exactly known for his generosity," Loki added.

Thor sighed. "He had concerns about the affect of an Asgardian army on the culture—"

"No, he got tired of people calling to him for help with their sheep disputes and their bubonic plague and would rather not be worshiped. He likes the glory, but not the management. He doesn't care about human culture, he thinks of them as ants." Loki looked at the rest of them. "No offense."

"Oh, none taken," Stark drawled. "You're just looking out for us."

"At least I'm attempting to help."

Fury made a frustrated noise that shut them all up. "So this is all I've got? A motley crew of monsters and gods against who knows how many aliens. And Odin'll keep any eye on us, just in case it gets bad. Which probably means 'if it looks like it might effect him in anyway.' That about the gist of it?"

"Technically you have the British Army, too," Rogers commented. "What little's here, anyway."

"Right. I feel much better now. I'll start popping the celebratory champagne."

Rogers took a step closer. "I hijacked the flagship of the British navy with eight men, a single shot pistol and poorly forged sword. Stark fought through an Ottoman battalion in a a suit he built in a dungeon with 400 year old knight armor and homemade black powder. Barton robbed an armored, guarded train by himself. Romanova killed a military dictator inside his own underground compound without anyone noticing for three days. Banner can level buildings. Thor controls the weather and can fly. Loki nearly took Odin's throne, can make illusions and teleport. Syn can keep us all alive no matter what they do, and also make fire. I don't know these new people but I bet they're as bullet proof as the rest of Asgard." He stood right in front of Fury. "I'd put my money on that team. Outnumbered and outgunned is where we live."

Clint wasn't sure what was more impressive. That Rogers had successfully made Fury speechless or that he had apparently read all of their files. He was going to need to hear that flagship story someday.

Fury stared Rogers down another minute, then glanced at Coulson. "Get Thor's people some rooms." Then he turned without a word and stalked out of the room.

Syn and Loki started applauding when he was gone.

Some of them laughed, breaking the the nearly oppressive tension. He found himself looking at Nat, and she smiled back at him. Then she looked back at Rogers. "All right, Captain," she said. "How do we do this?"

*

A full evacuation hadn't been possible, but instructions on sheltering in the Underground had been distributed, and many of those who had the money to do so had fled. The fancy hotel where some of the team had been staying was deserted. Shield requisitioned an entire floor of rooms, so they would all be centrally located when the attack began. They had put the entire city of London on blackout, cutting the electric power and gas in an attempt to motivate the attackers to wait until daylight. 

They planned by candle and kerosene lantern, and then were left with an evening to themselves. Nat was restless. She never knew what to do with herself on the night before an op. Especially not in the dark, with things strained between her and Clint.  
 Actually, that reminded her. She got up and lit a candle, taking it out into the hallway and knocking on Syn and Loki's door. She watched the ceiling, dearly hoping she wasn't interrupting something.

The door opened to reveal Syn, dressed in something Asgardian. The taller woman tilted her head. "Is something wrong?"

This now seemed like a terrible idea, but there was nothing Nat could do but plunge forward. "Could I talk to you privately?"

Syn slipped through the door without a word and followed Nat back to her room. Nat appreciated the complete lack of questioning. When they were behind closed doors again she took a deep breath and asked, "Can you tell if someone is pregnant?"

Syn's brow's arched but her voice was neutral when she responded, "Yes. Do you need me to check?"

She fidgeted with the lace trim at the cuffs of her shirt. "Given tomorrow it seems like the sort of information that would be useful."

"That's likely true." Syn stepped closer and set a hand on Nat's abdomen. There was a flare of gold light, then she dropped the hand. "You're not pregnant," she told Nat quietly.

The expected rush of relief didn't happen. She should be relieved. She was going into battle against aliens in the morning. Being pregnant was a complication none of them needed. Not even getting into everything that would happen afterwards. But instead of relief she felt an odd, disappointed numbness.

 Without a word, Syn stepped forward and wrapped her up in a hug. She couldn't remember the last time a woman had hugged her when she wasn't in some sort of character. Or anyone, really. It was rare anyone other than Clint touched her—aside from Loki yanking her around while shifting dimensions, or whatever that was. Even the generally effusive Mrs. Stark seemed to know better.

But right now it was just exactly what she needed.

After a moment Syn rubbed her back briskly. and leaned back with a smile. "Sometimes everyone needs a hug," she informed Nat. "First thing I taught my husband."

Her eyes stung a little, and she was horrified by that. She scrunched up her face to make sure that didn't go any further. "I’m sorry. And thank you."

"You're very welcome. Now." She lifted her hands and a liquor bottle and two glasses appeared in them. "Let's chat, shall we?" She took a seat at the end of the hotel bed. "Better to let it out then let it fester."

She took the offered glass, and watched Syn pour the clear liquid in it. "I'm very good at festering. Practically a master. Is that vodka?"

"Yes. You're Russian, it seemed appropriate." Syn poured her own glass and sipped it. "Taken from a bar down the street. They'll never miss it."

Nat laughed. It was _good_ vodka, too. "Clint is an immense fan of something called tequila. You can't get it in Europe, but it comes in two flavors—rotgut and deceptively tasteless. Only time I've ever been blackout drunk. The good stuff looks just like good vodka."

"Well, let's not aim for blackout drunk. I'm fairly certain you would die before I got to that point." Syn swirled her drink. "So. Things have been a bit off with you two lately. Is the pregnancy concern related?"

She drank more of her vodka, and fidgeted again. "Why are you asking?"

"We're going into battle tomorrow. All of us. If the two of you are at odds there's a very good chance it will get someone killed. You can't fight alongside someone you love unless that love is solid."

The thought made her feel panic, but she wasn't sure which part of it was the source. "We don't—I mean we're not—" She didn't even know what she was denying. She'd just asked the woman to ascertain if she was pregnant. Clearly they were something. But love was such a frightening word.

Syn waved a hand. "It's fine. You don't have to say it. I went almost a century without hearing it. You stoics aren't as hard to read as you think you are. It doesn't change the fact that the two of you worry more about the other one then you do yourself. It seems to have worked so far. But things are different now, aren't they? It won't just be concern. It will be fear."

Nat drained her glass. She wondered what her odds were of surviving tomorrow in any case. "He. . . wants things." 

Syn laughed. "Of course he does. Don't you? Companionship? Comfort? Perhaps a little redheaded archer causing trouble?"

That image still sent a pang through her. "Only if it's a girl," she muttered into her vodka.

"There, you see? Wanting things isn't bad."

"There is nothing about my life that has space for children. Or houses in San Francisco. We just lived like we'd die tomorrow. We took care of each other." She shook her head. "Then Rogers strung up that hammock and everything went to shit." 

Syn studied her, gaze far to intense for Nat's liking. "I understand that you were happy the way it was. But it seems that there's no going back. You are not a cowardly woman. Don't you want to see what the other side of this is? To find a way to have space in your life for whatever the two of you want? Life is about moving forward, changing. Especially lives like yours. Do you want to die not knowing what you might have had with him if only you'd unbent a little?"

About this she was coward. She tried to tell herself it was self preservation; if she didn't let herself feel it, it couldn't hurt her. "I tried a little. It only made everything worse."

"When you first tried to fight or kill someone did you do it perfectly?"

"This is different." She held out her glass for more vodka. "You wouldn't understand."

Syn filled the glass and put the bottle down by her feet. "Maybe not. I have no choice but honesty. To say what's in my heart, no matter the cost. But, in the end, that saved a great many lives. If I didn't love Loki. If he didn't _know_ that I loved him. Then he never would have listened to me when he tried to conquer Asgard. And who knows what would have happened? There is a great deal of power in the truth. In just saying something. Do you really want to go into battle tomorrow with things the way they are?"

"No. I don't." She swallowed. "He asked me what I wanted from him, and I. . .don't know. What could I possibly say?" Syn didn't answer her immediately, so she added. "No one ever asked me that before." Even he had never asked. Not that he really needed to. It had never needed to be said. When one of them needed something, the other took care of it. From fixing her hair all the way up to apparently planning what would happen once they got old.

The vodka in Syn's glass swirled as she played with it, rolling it between long fingers. "After the incident with the Jotuns Loki was imprisoned. I was confined to my room and spent most of my time trying to figure out a way to break him out. Then one day Frigga, the queen, came to talk to me. She offered to send me home, to Alfheim." She glanced at Nat. "I hadn't been home since I was a child. For over five hundred years all I wanted was to see it again. And now here was my chance. But I told her no. I went where Loki went. I asked her to send me to the prison, too. The next day we were sent down here."

She leaned over and took Nat's hand, squeezing it briefly before releasing it again. "Sometimes it's that simple. Sometimes all you need is to be together. You can figure out anything as long as you're working as a team."

Suddenly she thought of standing in the hallway of the steamship with Thor, Clint leaning in his doorway looking like death and saying, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, _I go where she goes._ She thought of the enemies he'd killed before she'd even noticed they were coming for her, because he watched from wherever he was that she couldn't see. "Does Loki know what you gave up for him?" Nat asked.

Syn smiled and sipped her vodka. "I can't lie. Loki knows all my secrets."

"Is it worth it?" _Why_ is it worth it would be a better question. Their relationship seemed unbalanced—and yet uncomfortably familiar. Some dark part of her feared she was too broken to figure out anything. 

The vodka was doing something, apparently. She really thought it was supposed to numb her, not make her feel.

"It is entirely worth it," Syn said fiercely. "I put him first for the same reason Clint asked you what you wanted; because no one ever had before. When he found out I had given up home for him he was _furious_. Ranted and raved at me, as only Loki can. When he finally finished I asked him what he would have done. And he froze. As if I'd slapped him. I didn't even need him to admit it." She shook her head. "I don't need him to prove what he'd do for me. I am frighteningly aware of the lengths he'd go to. He needs the reassurance. So I make the grand gestures. I know how it looks from the outside but I wouldn't give it up for anything. The thought of life without him is terrifying."

That. That she understood. "I don't think it looks bad," she said after a moment. "It's a bit. . .hopeful. If you happen to be one of those people no one is supposed to trust." She thought about that first night in a darkened London mews, both of them putting their best weapons down. Him deciding, for reasons she'd never understood, that she was worth saving. "Or love."

They were both silent a moment, then Syn said quietly, "I believe, if you picked away the layers of stoicism and bravado, Loki would say it was worth it, as well."

Nat was certain, just then, that if she opened her mouth, she was going to cry. So nodding turned out to be the best she could do. Syn reached out and took the glass out of her hand. "I believe his room is at the end. He wanted a view of the street."

She managed to clear her throat enough to say, "He likes to watch the approaches." Her voice may have cracked a little, but Syn was gracious enough to ignore it.

"No one ever looks up." Nat laughed a little as the other woman stood. "Goodnight, Natasha."

Nat nodded again. "Thanks, Syn."

"Any time." She paused at the door. "When this is all over, we should have a proper drink, you and I."

"I think I would enjoy that."

Syn gave a little bow and let herself out of the room. Nat sat and stared into her vodka for a long moment. Then she put the glass down and walked down the hall.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Yellow Socks, a Red Corset, and Promises of Tomorrow_


	21. Yellow Socks, a Red Corset, and Promises of Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's on the late side. I have a stomach virus and am lucky to remember what day it is. :)
> 
> One of my favorite chapters here. Enjoy!

She stood in front of his door for an inordinately long time. She still had no idea what she was going to say, only that she had to say something. She'd been terrified of this conversation for so very long. The first step was to knock.

"Come in," he called from the other side. When she pushed the door open he was sitting by the window, despite the fact that it was probably the coldest place in the room. Spring would start somewhere in the northern hemisphere soon, but it hadn't gotten anywhere near England yet. 

He was in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, dark trousers and yellow socks on the feet propped on the second chair across from him. She'd knit those socks, years ago, when teaching herself how. They were mis-sized and mismatched and generally terrible. She had no idea he still had them.

She perched on the edge of the bed, looking at the socks. It seemed the safest place to put her gaze at the moment. Maybe she should have brought the vodka. "Tomorrow's probably going to be pretty terrible," she finally said.

She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn't look up. "Somebody once told me horror shared is easier to handle."

Well, at least he didn't sound angry or grumpy or like he didn't want to talk to her. She looked from his socks to her hands. "I—I know I'm not good at this. That most if not all of the problems between us are my fault. I wish I was better. But if tomorrow is going to be as bad as I think then I don't want to spend tonight apart from you."

In her peripheral vision, she saw him stand up. He crossed the few steps to the bed, and sat down next to her. He reached out and took her hand. "I don't believe we're going to die tomorrow. But we don't have to figure everything out right now. We don't have to figure anything out any time soon." He paused. "Except at some point the baby thing, since there's some timing involved there."

She tilted her head towards him. "I'm not pregnant. I asked Syn to check so I'd know before the battle."

She could see him deflate, just a little. "Ah. Well. That's good news, isn't it?"

To be honest, she still wasn't entirely sure. Especially given how he'd slumped. "I don't know. But it probably would have distracted me fighting. So I guess that's good, at least."

"Natasha," he said, in a tone of voice she knew meant he wanted her to look at him and stop studying the buckle on his suspenders with such interest. She blew out a breath. Right, not a coward. Buck up, Romanova. She slowly lifted her gaze to his. "We're not going to die tomorrow," he repeated, with a certainty she had no idea the source of. "Neither of us is going to want to spend tomorrow evening arguing. Especially given how the last version of the topic went."

She stared at him, feeling her heart pound. Was he saying no? He had said the sex was a mistake. Maybe he really meant that.

_Be a team_ , Syn had said. Stick together and figure it out. She looked down at his hand on hers. She turned her wrist so they could weave their fingers together. "I don't want to spend any evening fighting with you. If you want me to go, I will, no hard feelings. But I'd like to stay, Even if I sleep in a chair. I just. . . I'd rather be with you. I don't have your faith." She looked up at him. "Where you go, I go, _moi pitchka_."

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, with more intensity than she expected—but of the sort she so desperately needed. When he lifted his head, he inhaled a breath laced with either tears or laughter, she couldn't tell which. Maybe both. "I don't want you to go. I just want you to go get your diaphragm."

She cupped his face and gave her own little half laugh. "Yes. I will do that. And I will be _right back_."

He kissed her. "I will be right here."

She had never moved that quickly without someone shooting at her. She'd certainly never put her diaphragm in that eagerly. She was about to go back, then stopped. Figuring he wouldn't mind waiting an extra minute or two, she changed into her red corset and her courtesan dress and went back to his room.

Clint was crouched in front of the fireplace, trying to stoke it back to life. "Probably a little cold in here to be. . ." That was as far as he got in the sentence when he saw her. He was holding a hot coal with tongs, and dropped it right on the carpet.

She couldn't count the number of men who had looked at her like that over the years, in that very dress. But it was the first time it hit her like that. She felt his gaze like a caress.

The rug at his feet started to smolder. She pointed to it. "Um, Clint? No sex if the hotel is on fire."

He cursed, and knocked it back into the fireplace before stamping out the rug. "I'm sorry," he said, then added a rather reverent, "I love that dress."

She spread her arms and did a turn. "I know. I thought it might be nice to use it for someone I wanted to take it off me." She stepped closer to him. "I like how you look at me when I have it on."

He traced his fingers along the neckline, over the tops of her breasts. "I lose all power of thought and speech."

Her fingers curled around his waist. "Well, talking isn't required."

"Good," he whispered. He kissed her as he began to undo the row of tiny pearl buttons on the bodice. She kissed him back, but stood mostly passive as he slowly undid the buttons and peeled the dress off of her. Men liked to unwrap and Clint was no exception. Though the look on his face when he saw the red corset was absolutely priceless.

He untied her petticoats and helped her step out of them, and then seemed to take a moment just to look at her in her corset and drawers. She was very glad she'd changed, the gray flannel bloomers she'd had on—warm though they were—didn't fit the picture quite like Irish lace. He pulled her towards him, framing his hands around her waist. His fingers nearly met; she kept the red corset laced as tight as she could stand and still breath. She had to lay down to get the hooks done. But it was so very much worth it right now. "You are absolutely perfect," he whispered.

She smiled and touched his cheek with her knuckles, stroking the rough stubble she found there. "No, I'm not," she said, smiling. "But you make me feel like it, sometimes."

"You'll have to take my word for it," he replied, leaning down to kiss her again. Since he seemed to be taking his time admiring her in the corset, she started on him, peeling the suspenders off his shoulders and sliding them down. She lifted his white linen shirt up over his head and found another wool one beneath it. It was tan, and had a tear in the side she knew to be a bullet hole because she'd stitched it. It had gone right through the shirt without striking him. She'd sewn it with red thread to remind him nobody got that lucky twice.

She ran her thumb along the stitches and smiled at him. Then she tugged the shirt up and over his head. He really was lovely to look at. Smooth, tan skin stretched over muscle, marred here and there by scars. Half she'd been witness to, the rest she knew the stories of. She leaned forward to press her mouth against one on his shoulder left by a knife.

He touched the laces at the back of her corset, tracing them from top to bottom. "Can I unlace it?" He tugged on the knot at her waist. “I’ve been imagining this a long time, and I always undo the laces and not the hooks.”

She really wasn't sure they would survive the next day. If they didn't it was nice to know she was fulfilling a long time dream of his. So, even though it would be a pain in the ass to get it tied this tight again, she turned so he could see the laces properly. "The only time I tried to keep it on for this I almost passed out from lack of air."

He turned her around, and kissed her shoulder, then the back of her neck. He pulled the laces out with patience, the slow loosening allowing her to fill her lungs deeper with each breath—until he could finally pull the corset away. Then he very slowly tugged up her thinnest, most delicate silk chemise—not even pausing to admire it's translucency. He untied the drawstring on her drawers and let them fall, then made her sit on the bed so he could roll down her stockings.

She'd missed them in her haste. They were a very warm but very ugly green striped wool. He didn't seem to notice. He peeled them off and tossed them away. She stretched her toes, just as she always did when he removed her boots. He smiled a little, running rough fingers up her leg.

He was still in his slacks and socks, suspenders dangling around his hips, She touched his arm, running her hand down his bicep. "I can't believe you wear those socks."

Embarrassment tinged his features for just a moment. He knelt in front of her, putting his hands on her thighs. "They make me think of you." The socks. The shirt she'd mended years ago and he had no reason to keep. She had the feeling if she turned up the cuff of those pants she'd find the left one had been hemmed by her hand. 

She bent close and kissed him lightly, resting her forehead on his. "I will make you better socks," she promised.

His hands wandered over her skin. He cupped her breasts and made a contented noise. Then he kissed her again, a rough, hungry kiss. She groaned, spearing her fingers through his hair. She shifted closer to him, scooting to the edge of the bed. He kissed her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. Her shoulder. The tips of her breasts. "We're not going to die tomorrow," he told her. "But I intend to taste every bit of you. Just in case."

Her breathing was very ragged at this point, but she managed to ask, "Will I get a turn, as well?"

He trailed his fingers over her abdomen, and gave her a gentle push. "We have all night."

Theoretically, they should probably try to fit some sleep in there somewhere. But, as she lay back on the bed and gave a great stretch, she thought it would be fun to exhaust each other first. He pressed kisses into her skin, from her ribcage down to her knees, seeming very thorough in his intent. It was slow, deliberate torture, and she thought she might kill him by the time he slid his hands up the insides of her thighs.

At the slight pressure she opened wide for him, feeling the still cool air of the room against her damp curls. He had better touch her soon or she might take matters into her own hands. Come to think of it, that probably wasn't the best threat.

She could hear him chuckling—because he knew her, of course. Before she could open her mouth to issue actual threats, he finally touched her. His hands, and then his mouth, and she lost whatever thoughts she might have had. She dug her fingers in his hair and tipped her head back, eyes closed, so she could focus entirely on what he was doing to her. He was quite skilled and she was terribly wound up. Pleasure grew quickly, hot and tight deep in her belly. She moaned, then cried out his name as it flooded through her, leaving her shaking.

As she floated in her orgasm haze, she felt the bed dip as he sat on it. He stroked her leg. "You're a cheap date, honey."

She patted his hand. "At least there's one thing about me that's easy." His brow furrowed and she realized she'd said it in Russian, so she repeated it in English for his sake.

"You lost your English." He leaned down to kiss her, and she could taste herself. "I haven't seen that since the Tequila."

She cupped his face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. "The things you do to me." He smiled at her they way he did only when no one was looking, and kissed her again. She could feel the rough fabric of his slacks on her legs and reached down to unfasten them.

"No weapons tonight," he told her, leaving her to her task.

"That might be a first," she said. She sat up so she could drag the pants down his legs, taking his shorts with them. The light had been better the first time, the sun coming in the ship’s windows. But they'd been rushed. Now she had time, but only dim, flickering firelight.

She pushed him gently and he lay back on the covers, sprawled out with his hands behind his head in a very Clint pose. She had never seen him in this particular position while nude, though. He really was lovely to look at. Not an ounce of spare fat anywhere she could see. She ran her hands along his sides, then across his chest, mapping him, before trailing light fingers down the hard muscles of his stomach. They twitched a little under her touch, and he inhaled slowly, one of his calming breaths. A silent request she not torment him too much.

Still, he'd promised her a turn. So she bent and pressed a kiss just below his navel. She heard him take another calming breath. She ran her hands down his thighs as she shifted down and took the head of his cock in her mouth. A sharp inhale now, and he plunged one of his hands into her hair.

There was no intent to torture him. She just wanted a taste, a promise of things to come. Because if they didn't die tomorrow she really wanted to keep doing this. Enough to talk. Enough to sort things out. 'More sex with you,' probably wasn't the best answer to 'What do you want?' But it was true and it was at least a start. This was going to have to take little steps if she was going to get anywhere. She didn't know if she could properly express all that with her current activity, but she tried.

His hand tightened in her hair, until it was painful on her scalp, until he finally gave it a very purposeful tug. She released him and his fingers loosened a bit. She crawled up him so she could kiss his mouth. The kiss was intense, and desperate. He held her still by her hair, and she let him take control. He rolled her over, underneath him. She wound her arms around his neck, holding him close. She could count the number of people she trusted on one hand and he was at the top of the list. And perhaps the only one who understood exactly how much it meant that she didn't feel even the faintest flicker of unease at having him above her. All she felt was safe.

"Now?" she murmured, shifting her legs on his. His hand slid along her thigh, pulling it higher. Then he shifted and pushed slowly, slowly into her. She held his eyes, feeling more connected to him at that moment than she even thought was possible. It should terrify her, but it didn't.

She pressed her hand to his cheek and murmured his name. As if he'd been waiting for her signal he started to move, still achingly slow. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she arched into him, meeting his strokes with her own. He kissed her mouth, matching the same languid tenderness. As if there were no tomorrow. As if they had all the time in the world.

It was an achingly slow climb to her second climax. When the initial shock of intimacy faded she found herself murmuring to him in a blend of Russian and English. Love words, requests, praise. They moved with each other, shifting their angle in minute changes, until his every stroke sent shocks of pleasure through her.

When it finally snapped she gave a broken cry in a voice she didn't recognize and clung to him as if he were the only real thing in the world. She held him tight when he shuddered against her, and then they lay there, breathing in tandem, drifting in the silence.

Eventually he turned his head, to kiss where her neck met her shoulder. Just below her ear, he murmured something she didn't understand, and it took a moment to register it wasn’t English. The rare moments she’d heard him speak Comanche, it generally irritated him and he’d always immediately translated. Nothing came, though, and suddenly she had the sense he'd told her he loved her, as best as he felt he could.

The word was still too big, too terrifying. But she was starting to realize that it was only because it was real. She must love him, or it wouldn't frighten her so. She tried to make the words come, even in Russian, but they stuck in her throat.

_Tomorrow night_ , she told herself. It would be her reason to live. To tell him, finally, in English, that he hadn't been wrong about her, all those years ago. That she had be worth saving. For now she hugged him tightly and murmured, " _Moi pitchka_ ," affectionately.

"Tomorrow, after we don't die, you're going to tell me what that means," he mumbled into her shoulder.

She laughed. "I promise. Will you tell me what you said?"

He lifted his head, searching her face. "Tomorrow," he whispered.

That all but confirmed her suspicions. So she kissed him lightly. "Tomorrow will be an eventful day."

He kissed her, and then climbed up to go bank the fire. She turned back the covers on the bed and was waiting for him in it when he returned. He tucked her body up against his, making her feel safe and warm. Her fingers touched the still healing scar on his bicep. He'd taken his own stitches out. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Why are you thanking me?"

He kissed the top of her head. "I didn't want to be apart from you tonight, either."

She sighed happily and curled closer to him. "You're welcome, then." He rubbed her back, and she closed her eyes, letting his steady breathing lull her to sleep.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _A Hole in the River_


	22. A Hole In The River

It was still dark when knocking on the door woke Clint up. It sounded more polite than frantic banging, so he assumed the attack wasn't yet underway. Nat made a grumbling noise, and he kissed the top of her head and said, "I'll get it." The fire was out and the room outside the blankets was freezing. He grabbed his pants and wool undershirt before opening the door a crack.

Stark was on the other side. "Nat told me once you had hearing like a bat."

He blinked. "What time is it?"

"Four. I couldn't sleep, so I've been tuning some of my equipment to receive electromagnetic waves . . . I may have something. Can you come?"

He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Give me a minute."

Stark nodded and disappeared down the hall. Clint closed the door and turned back the room to find Nat propped up on an elbow. "Should I come?"

"It might be nothing. You need your sleep." He leaned over to kiss her. "I'll call the hotel if anything comes of it."

She sighed and kissed him back. "Good luck, whatever it is."

He dressed for the cold, and for the fight—just in case he wasn't back. Stark gave him a look when he went out into the hallway. "Hey. Better safe than sorry."

He shrugged, apparently accepting that. "I have a carriage waiting out front. Come on."

"We could probably walk," Clint commented.

"When you have had most of the bones in your lower body broken, you can talk to me about walking places in this kind of weather."

"I accept that as valid."

They probably could have walked it quicker, despite the empty streets. They pulled up in front of Victoria Tower, where Shield had its headquarters. Stark's lab was deep underground, the equipment taking up several rooms worth. Clint hadn't the foggiest idea what most of it did, so he just followed to where the other man lead.

"So I've been working on using electromagnetic waves to transmit not just the signal on the circuit, but sound. Voices transmitted over the air. I don't think it's really working, but I hooked the receiver I installed on the roof that relays the wireless signals through the telephone line into the amplifier." He began flipping switches, and a moment later the horn of what Clint had _thought_ was a phonograph began emitting sound.

Which did sound much like the static hiss of phonograph.

"You hear that clicking?" Stark asked.

"They always click and pop like that. Maybe your cylinder is dirty."

"There _is_ no cylinder. This is coming from the air."

That didn't seem possible, but he trusted Stark. He listened to it, and counted as he did. "I hear it. Does sound like there's a pattern to it."

Stark dug on his desk and handed him a piece of paper and a nub of pencil. Clint listened and drew a line every time he heard the click, like transcribing Morse Code dits and dahs. After a couple minutes of this he looked at the paper. There was clearly a pattern, though damned if he knew what it meant.

He looked over at Stark. "That mean anything to you?"

The inventor looked at the marks a moment, then said, "I think it means we should wake up the others."

"Yeah." He sighed. "We can't see them yet, but they're here. I'll be on the roof."

Stark nodded and headed for the door. "See you soon," he called over his shoulder.

Victoria Tower was the second tallest thing in London, after St. Paul's Cathedral, looming over the Houses of Parliament. Between Shield's underground labyrinth and the the roof were the parliamentary archives, the entire records of the British Empire. The building had been built 35 years before to be fireproof. He hoped that was true.

He could barely make out the Thames in the darkness. He imagined they'd come from the river, and he imagined they'd wait until dawn. He hoped.

The rest of the team arrived faster than he'd expected. Nat had decided Stark's gut was worth listening to, and was in the middle of mobilizing everyone when the official call went out. Stark stayed down in the basement, tracking the pattern of the sound. The eastern sky was starting to turn silver with pre-dawn light and the entire city was quiet, like it was holding its breath. 

A ring emitting from the telephone Stark had hastily installed up there last night made even Clint jump. He reached over to pick it up. "Got anything?"

"I figured out the pattern," Stark said. "It's numbers. 51, 29, 54. Some sort of symbol. 0, I think. 7, 31. Symbol again. It's a different sound, but they're both similar."

"I. . . codes are your thing, not mine," Clint replied.

"I haven't slept in two days!" Stark came back with. "And you reverse engineer an alien code over phonograph horn."

Clint put the phone down. "Does this mean anything to any of you?" He rattled off the numbers. "He has no idea what the things at the end are."

The question was met with a sea of confused faces. And Rogers bouncing in excitement. "I know that! That's longitude and latitude. It's coordinates."

"For where?" Loki, Thor, and Banner said in unison.

"London," he answered promptly, still sounding proud. "I'd need charts to be more specific."

He relayed all of this to Stark, who proclaimed himself to have charts, down there somewhere. Rogers and Coulson went down to look at the charts. When the phone rang again, it was Coulson this time. "We've got five sets of coordinates. Stark went to put on the suit. The first set of coordinates is for this building."

They left Clint on the roof to stand watch, and sent Thor up to fly a circuit around the city. The rest of them went down to look at the charts and prepare for battle. Four of the coordinates were clearly targets. The brand new Tower Bridge. Parliament. St. Paul's. Buckingham Palace. The fifth was in the middle of the river. It wasn't near anything, and Thor flew over and lit it up.

No one could guess what it was, and the first priority was to distribute the troops at their disposal to guard the targets specified. Their team would take Parliament.

The sun had finally emerged, and through the smoky gloom he had a better view of the city. He watched the river for boats, and the air for flying machines. He almost missed it, the dark shape in the filthy, nearly opaque water.

Downstairs, someone picked up on the first ring. "I think there's a submarine in the river."

By the time he put the telephone back down. . .the "submarine" had stood up.

*

Nat stood shoulder to shoulder with Syn and Banner, staring up at the . . . machine, she guessed, that stood before them. "That. . . that is very large," she said.

"When they said alien I was expecting something, I don't know, squishier," Banner added.

Syn tilted her head, studying it. "I wonder if it's flammable."

It turned, not toward them, but toward the building, and fired something from it's chest that looked like a cannon. The Other One appeared in the midst of the explosion with astonishing speed, and he turned to block them from it. 

Then he turned, and hit it with one gigantic fist, sending it sailing into the street in a pile of metal. If there was anything alive inside, it probably wasn't anymore.

In the mean time, dozens of smaller versions had emerged from the river. 

"That was artillery," Rogers said. "Stark?"

He tapped the side of his helmet. "I already asked. Barton says the big one only came up here. This may be their primary target."

The smaller, people sized machine-alien-things had started firing, with what seemed to be some sort of regular bullets. Stark opened fire with his shoulder guns and it was too loud for any further discussion.

Syn picked out her target and leapt forward with her staff. Nat ducked another round of bullets—they were well armed but their maneuvering was for shit—and rushed another creature, taking it down to the ground before managing to separate the head from the body. Weak neck, good to know.

They came in what seemed like endless numbers. The Other One climbed halfway up Victoria Tower chasing them, tossing them off to smash on the pavement. They weren't flammable, but at some point Thor discovered you could electrocute them. He zapped them from the sky, electricity sometimes leaping from one to the other. 

Nat lost sight of Stark, which meant she'd lost connection to whatever Clint was seeing up in the tower. She was alone for a bit, until Rogers chased another one of those big things into her line of sight. She watched him toss his shield at it, taking the head clean off. He picked it up and came jogging over.

"Hey. You kill them up close?"

She rolled her left shoulder, which had gotten wrenched in the last scuffle. "Yeah. My handgun doesn't seem to phase them much."

He turned the head around, reached into the helmet, pulling out a handful of wires. "There's nothing inside but wires."

She had noticed, figured it was why it was so easy to decapitate them. "I lost Stark. I bet he'd love to check them out."

"You think they're alive or is something controlling them?"

"They don't track. They shoot in my general direction, but there's no combat adaption." She kicked a head down the block. "I think they have orders, but no autonomy. Which means there's a head brain somewhere."

"Maybe that's the coordinates in the river. They keep coming out of the water. Maybe the brain is down there. Maybe in a submarine. Or maybe it's a giant fish. I'd buy anything at this point."

Giant fish would seem almost normal at this point in their adventures. "So, who do we have who can get to the bottom of the river?"

"I can hold my breath a long time, but without any light in that murky water. . . Maybe Stark can." He stepped to the left, further into the street, looking up at the tower and raising his shield to catch the light. She looked up to see Clint leaning over the edge. Rogers held up four fingers. A moment later, an arrow hit the wall of the building behind them. He reached up and peeled of a piece of paper wrapped beneath the arrowhead. "He's three blocks north, one west."

A great deal of their planning the night before had been figuring out different methods of communication and hand signals. It had been a little mind-numbing at the time, but now she was grateful for it. She rolled her shoulder again and nodded. "Let's go." 

*

Everyone seemed to be under the impression Tony only had one submarine, when in fact there were three. There was one designed for exploration and observation but not combat that was installed on Shield's steamship. There was one designed for surveillance and distance that was currently in dry dock in New York for a power systems overhaul.

And then there was the new one—small, light, electrically powered with it's own air supply, designed to sink ships. It had just been built, at Shield's new facility at the Tilbury Docks. It was perfect, and conveniently armed to the teeth.

This was also the first time it had actually been in the water.

They'd been under the water for a while now, and nothing had leaked. "We should be almost there," Rogers said from beside him. Beyond the glass is was a murky gray. "Though hell if I know what we're looking for."

"I would say 'anything out of the ordinary' but I'm not sure either of us are a good judge of ordinary anymore." He slowed the sub and turned on a couple more exterior lights. "We're almost on top of the coordinates. See anything?"

"Can you take it any lower?"

He moved the controls very slowly, since he had no idea where the riverbed was. Suddenly one of the alien machines appeared in front of them, nearly crashing to the sub. It was one of the larger ones, and it rammed into the steel sides.

"Shoot it!" Rogers yelled.

"There are non-zero odds we'll explode if I do that."

He could hear Steve processing that. "Outrun it?"

"That I can try." He dimmed the lights and cranked the engine, dodging away from the next lurching attack. That seemed enough, as it just kept going on to whatever it's target was. "They're stupid, I'll give them that." After a moment, he turned the lights back on.

Rogers made a noise beside him. "What in God's name is _that_?"

He shifted the engine to neutral and moved to look out the window Rogers was pressed to. "That. . . is out of the ordinary."

There was, for lack of a better word, a hole in the middle of the water. It was twice the size of the sub and seemed to glow around the edges. As they watched another metal monster emerged from it, heading for the surface.

"You. . . are seeing this? I'm not losing my mind?"

"That I am." He leaned forward. "I wonder where it goes."

"I am not signing on for the mission to find out," Rogers said firmly, glaring at him a bit.

"Fine, fine. We'll go back up." He brought the submarine to the surface, and steered it over to the Westminster Ferry dock. He'd telegraphed the others to meet them there—except for Banner, who was busy guarding the tower, and wasn't much for conversing when he was green anyway.

It took a few minutes for everyone to congregate. Barton was the last one, obviously reluctant to leave his perch. Thor promised to personally fly him up when they were done.

"Does anyone need healing?" Syn asked before Tony could speak.

There was something very amusing about the way Barton pointed at Romanova, and the look of betrayal she gave him, before reluctantly holding out a bleeding arm for mending.

"While she's doing that. They are emerging from some sort of. . . hole in the river. I don't know how to describe it. It's about ten feet in diameter, and glowed at the edges."

Loki and Syn exchanged glances and seemed to have one of those silent conversations they so often had. Finally, he said, "It's likely the portal leading to whatever world their coming from. Hiding it underwater. . . that's quite clever, actually."

"Can we blow it up?" he asked immediately.

"Explosions are not the answer to all of life's problems, Stark."

"Loki," Syn said as she let Romanova go. "Can you close it?"

"I'll need to see it. Probably."

Stark held out a hand. "Back in the sub."

The other man stopped long enough to kiss Syn and exchange a few whispered words Tony couldn't hear before following him down the dock. Behind them he heard Rogers giving new orders and Thor's hammer spinning up.

"Can I just mention that this would have been a useful skill for you to mention earlier," Tony commented as the submarine sunk below the surface.

"It wasn't relevant earlier. I had no idea how they were getting here. There are other methods of transport than an open portal."

"You can open and close them at will?"

Loki gave a half shrug. "It requires a great deal of concentration and magic, but yes. Most portals, anyway. If this one is using a tether or artifact as a focus then it will be more difficult."

He turned on the lights as they approached, dodging another machine lumbering along the riverbed. "Why do you stay here?"

There was a moment of silence. "Syn thinks it's a better idea to live out my sentence than to be on the run as fugitives."

That made him smile. "The things we do for them."

Loki shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. "It is astounding the things she can talk me into and somehow make me think was my idea."

The portal came into view. "There it is."

He pulled alongside it so Loki could get a good look and they weren't likely to get hit by anything coming out of it. After a few moments of study Loki sighed. "That water is fairly disgusting, isn't it?"

"It's not as bad as I heard it used to be. . . but yes, it is basically a giant sewer this far down. All rivers near cities are like that. You should see the rivers surrounding New York."

He sighed again. "This will be unpleasant, then. Feel free to go back to the surface. This may take a bit." With that he disappeared in a flash of green. In the water Tony got a glimpse of a green glow near the portal which was vaguely person shaped. He sure as hell hoped whatever magic he was using could keep him dry.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _On Not Going Gentle Into That Good Night_


	23. On Not Going Gentle Into That Good Night

Clint couldn't tell what was going on under the water where they had gone. . . but clearly something was happening. The behavior of the machines had changed. They turned away from whatever they were in the middle of destroying and all began marching towards what quickly became obvious was their primary target. Which was the building he was standing on. 

No one answered the telephone line, and Stark and the wireless were underwater. Attempts to signal them down below weren't seen, not even arrows—but then, they were very busy. 

This was about all he could do up here, anyway, so he tossed a line over the side and rappelled down. He hit the ground just in time to get off a couple arrows and take down two of the foot soldiers. There was a clank behind him and he turned in time to see Nat ripping the head off a third.

He grinned at her. "Hello, honey."

She blew some stray hairs out of her eyes. "Hello darling. I'm afraid supper may be a tad late tonight."

"They're all coming here. Whatever Loki is doing, they've noticed."

"That's probably a good sign. Pain in the ass for us, of course, but—" She broke off as a small pile of arrows materialized at his feet. "What—?"

"Syn," he explained. "Asgardians are handy."

She stared at him. "That's been driving me crazy all day. How many arrows could you possibly _have_ up there?"

He turned to wave at the healer, and she waved back. He yelled that they were all headed here, and she nodded and passed it along. He found himself some cover and concentrated on shooting into the few spots of vulnerability he'd found in the joints of the machines. "What's bothering me is _why_?"

"Are you getting philosophical in the middle of a fight, Clint?" Nat yelled from a different spot of cover.

"They all turned here. What is here? Why is this the primary target?"

There was a rattle of artillery fire and when she spoke again her voice was coming from a new spot. "Must be something about the tower that interests them. Other then us."

"They can't want Stark's toys. The building is evacuated. The record rooms are useless." One of them shot something explosive over his head and he ducked. Rogers was taking it down by the time Clint straightened. Immortality sure did give the man some balls.

Nat's appearance at his side made him jump. She could sneak up on anyone. "Leopold wanted to build a super army to service. . . whomever is behind this. I'm guessing, now, because they don't have any men, just these semi autonomous machines. I know Odin thought they would be too weak for him to need to get involved. Maybe they still want the stone."

"I thought Thor took it back to Asgard."

She shook her head. "I don't think so. Sounds like Odin may not know about it—something about a dispute over Jane. I wasn't thinking about it at the time. But I think it's still here." She pointed down, indicating the labyrinth below.

He glanced down instinctively when she pointed. "It's a good theory. Not sure it helps us in our current fight. Unless Thor or one of his friends wants to take it off planet with their rainbow thing."

Another head shake. "I don't think that's feasible in the middle of a fight. Probably best to keep doing what we're doing and hope Loki succeeds."

"I hope Syn went to get some help. We're the two weakest people and we're in the epicenter. Banner went out in the river." Speaking of the river, another one of the large artillery machines was emerging from the water—except this one was new. It had giant claws instead of arms. "What in hell is that?"

"Hoping that was rhetorical," she muttered. "Though if I have to guess I'd say those claws could get through a building if they had to."

"I think things are about to get much worse." He craned his neck to try and tell where Rogers had gone.

Nat glanced around, then stretched up to kiss his cheek. "I'm going to go see if I can catch the eye of someone big and strong. Try not to get stepped on."

"Be careful," he told her seriously.

She was already starting down the block but turned to toss him a salute. "Always."

The Claw Machine chose that moment to take a chunk out of the side of the building, hurling stone and steel everywhere. He ducked as a small boulder flew over his head. When he turned back, he could see one of Nat's feet sticking out from under a pile of rubble.

He ran without thinking, without looking, not really caring if the thing behind him took the building down. All he wanted was to get the rocks off her. He heard her groan and when he'd pulled off a few pieces of debris he saw her hand, pushing another away. He hauled a hunk of metal away and revealed her, bloody and broken, in the rubble. "Shit," she hissed, breath coming in short, pained pants. 

For a moment he attempted to count the bones that looked to be broken, then realized that was a waste. He leaned close. "Hang on, honey. I'm going to get Syn. You can even give me a dirty look while she works."

She gasped but managed a little nod. "Okay. Okay. Be careful."

He wasn't, though. Fear was blinding like that. It took away all your higher reason, and seemingly most of your senses. He stood up without looking.

There must have been a sound, but he only sort of heard it. A rattle in the distance. There wasn't any pain, but he felt the force of something hitting him. The energy of small, intense impacts. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

The entire world seemed to spin, and he crumpled as his knees gave out. As he hit the cobblestones he tasted blood in his mouth. . . and now that he was looking at himself, there seemed to be a lot of it, coming from everywhere. 

Pain kicked in then, like an icy shock. He felt for the gunshots, where they were, how much they were bleeding. How fast would he die.

He got a handle on the pain, at least well enough he could concentrate on something else. He turned his head and realized that if he reached, he might be able to touch Nat. "I'm—I'm sorry," he managed to get out.

He had never seen her look so afraid. Or so young. "Clint. Clint!" She flung out her arm, the only part of her that looked unbroken, and reached for him. "It's okay. I'm here. It's okay."

For someone who lived such a dangerous life, he'd never spent much time contemplating what it might be like to be dying. Maybe he should be reviewing his life or repenting his sins. But he didn't have just himself to worry about now. He didn't want her to be scared. So he stretched, despite it being the single most painful thing he'd ever experienced, until he could tuck his hand in hers. 

"I love you," he told her, even though talking was a special, blinding sort of hell. "Last night. That's what I said." He thought if he said it in a language she understood, she’d panic. But he’d found himself unable to hold it in. Perhaps just in case the worse happened. She was the only person he’d loved, since he was very small.

Her hand tightened on his and she actually managed to smile. "I suspected. I wanted to say it back but I just. . . I told myself I'd say it today. After—" She took a breath that seemed to rasp and rattle. " _Moi pitchka_ means 'my little birdie.'"

That made him laugh, which hurt so much he thought for a moment he might pass out. But once he did, that would be it. And he wasn't ready yet. "You don't have to." It was harder than he thought to get his thoughts straight. "I was a really. . .miserable person before I met you. I wagered my life and my money for Fury because you reminded me of myself. And I thought. . ." he had to pause to fight the darkness again. "I thought we could be alone together. It was the best thing I've ever done."

"I love you," she said. "I've never loved anyone. Just you." She paused and he thought she might have been crying, but her face was hard to see. "You need to hang on, Clint. Syn'll find us and fix it. You need to hang on for me."

He remembered sitting in the rafters in the Congo listening to Syn tell Rogers she couldn't replace lost blood. And his was flowing all over the cobblestones. But he loved her, so he lied to her. "I'm trying," he said. There was a dull boom somewhere in the distance, and around them the machines began stopping and toppling over. Loki and Stark must have closed the portal. Not that it really mattered to him anymore. Though he hoped doing so hadn’t killed them. "I left you a letter," he told her.

She sniffled. Definitely crying. "Where?"

"Scotland. Mrs. Stark has it. Will tell you where the gold is." He wondered if Syn would make it. If Nat would survive. He needed her to survive. But it was getting harder and harder to stay awake.

"I'm really looking forward to seeing San Francisco," she said, sounding very far away.

There was a cry from even farther away and Syn came skidding into view. Dimly, he felt her hands on him, causing a new wave of pain. He reached up with his other arm, with the strength born of relief. She would get to see San Francisco.

He caught Syn's wrist, pulling it up. He squeezed it so hard he hoped it hurt. "No," he ground out. "Her."

"No," Nat said weakly.

At the same time Syn tried twisting her wrist out of his grip. "Clint, you can't—"

He met Syn's eyes. He wanted her to understand. She _had_ to understand. "Please."

For a moment she had the same heart-broken, helpless expression on her face as she had in the Congo when Loki had carried her out of that awful room. Then it hardened into determination. She touched his hair. "No one dies today," she told him.

 She turned and yelled something over her shoulder that he didn't hear. Or maybe it was in a language he didn't know. It didn't matter, because she got up, finally, going to tend to Natasha. He closed his eyes, feeling relief. He hoped Syn didn't beat herself up. He hoped Nat found a way to be happy someday, and that she wouldn't be alone. He hoped he'd made her happy while he could, and that she understood what she’d meant to him.

It was so very, very cold when the darkness finally took him.

*

Nat shoved weakly at Syn's hands. "No, you have to help him. You have to save Clint."

The other woman pushed harder, hands glowing. "It's all right. Loki is freezing him."

She could feel his hand growing cold in hers. Everything hurt worse now. Hurt enough death sounded like a relief. "Don't make me do this alone."

There was a sharp flare of pain in her back and hips then it all seemed to ease. "No one is dying today," Syn repeated. "I don't have enough power to fix both of you. Loki can put him in stasis until I can."

"Dear heart, there is a lot of blood on this pavement," he said from behind her. It sounded bad the way he said it. He sounded worried. 

Syn didn't answer, jaw tightening. Nat grabbed at her hand, catching it this time. "What does that mean?"

"I can't fix blood loss," she said quietly. "The body has to make it naturally. If I heal him he could still die because there isn't enough blood in him to run his organs."

Her statement had been just faith, then. Like Clint declaring is so the night before. "So he'll die tomorrow?"

She glanced at Nat's face, then lifted her hands, gold glow fading. "I'll think of something. There can't. . . there must be a way."

There were other voices, now. Then rest of them coming back towards the epicenter, just a little too late. The voices were murmurs, though she could very distinctly hear Stark cursing. She struggled to sit up, and Syn tried to get her to lay back. But she could move her limbs now, god damn it, and she was going to see him.

She only had to crawl, really, he was right next to her. There was, in fact, a tremendous amount of blood. How had he even stayed alive long enough to talk to her? He was cold to the touch, thanks to Loki. She curled her legs up and lifted his head onto her lap, stroking his hair.

Syn and Loki were explaining to a very animated Stark about injuries and blood loss. Nat wasn't really paying attention until Syn finally shouted, "I can't magic new blood into him!"

She could feel the tears filling her eyes, and she let them fall. She didn't give a shit who saw her anymore. 

"I think I know someone who can." Nat turned her head to see the source of the voice, which turned out to be Banner having turned back into himself. "You can transfer blood between people."

"Isn’t that fatal as often as not?" Stark demanded. Some part of her, some day, was going to be touched by just how angry he was about this.

"Usually. But you know how that never stops Shield from keeping trying. Is Coulson still guarding the bunker the Prime Minister is in?"

Loki was the first person to get out, "Why?"

Banner shrugged. "He's done the blood transfer eight times. Hasn't failed yet. Hell if I know why." Before he'd even finished the sentence, she could hear Thor's hammer spinning up. As he lifted off, Banner added, "And could somebody find me some pants?"

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _A Different Kind of Superpower_


	24. A Different Kind of Superpower

She refused to leave Clint, so she found herself in an uncomfortable chair in the Shield infirmary, next to his bed. He was very still and very cold, still covered in blood. She was exhausted, so tired she couldn't even think, but she couldn't leave him like this.

Syn was in the hallway, having an intense conversation with Banner while Loki pressed food in her hand and made her eat. A nurse came in with a pair of scissors to cut off his shirt. Nat wanted to do it herself, but her fingers were remarkably clumsy, so she let the nurse do her job. It was worse, she realized, to see the actual bullet holes in his skin. She didn't look when the nurse lifted him enough to get the back off. Exit wounds were worse.

It wasn't until she heard the scrape of a chair that she realized Coulson had come into the room. He was pulling up one across from her on the other side of the bed. "They want me all hooked up as soon as he's thawed." 

Nat nodded. She'd picked up some of it. Syn wasn't sure how much power she had left and was trying to determine what the minimum amount of healing was required. None of the medical professionals were all that helpful in figuring that out, as they didn't, actually, know as much about what was wrong with Clint as Syn did. At least not without opening him up, an event that would certainly be fatal. Despite the fact that this was a Shield infirmary, the staff seemed pretty freaked out by the concept of magical healing. Last she'd heard someone was running off to get an anatomy model.

She curled her hand around Clint's cold one and looked at Coulson. "You were right."

"No, I wasn't," he replied, clearly knowing exactly what she was referring to. "Even if I was, it was a terrible thing to say. This isn't your fault."

Goddammit, she wasn't going to cry. Not now. "I wasn't paying attention. The building came down and I didn't even see—" She took a deep breath through her nose. "He was going to get help for me. He stood up and the bullets just ripped through him." No matter what happened, that image would haunt her the rest of her life.

"He got my attention when he stood," Syn said from behind her. Nat glanced up and she and Loki and Banner were all standing at the foot of the bed. "If I hadn't seen him, I wouldn't have gotten there in time. You'd have died." But Clint wouldn’t have. That was sort of the point. He was clearly willing to die for her. He’d tried. And he might yet still succeed. She inhaled through her nose and tried not to think about that.

Syn glanced at Coulson. "We're ready if you are."

He nodded and Banner went to his side to hook up a needle and a long tube to his arm. Syn came to stand next to Nat. She looked as tired as Nat felt, shadows bruising under her eyes. "All right. On my mark, Loki will unfreeze him and I will start healing. First priority is organs and blood vessels, then bone, then muscle and skin. Anything I can't take care of, Dr. Banner and the medics here will stabilize until I have time to rest and finish. You," she added, pointing at Loki, "Are not to stop me because you're worried. Everyone ready?" The rest of them nodded. "Good. Go."

Nat could feel him warming, but his skin didn't get any less deathly pale. She watched blood flow down the tube from Coulson's arm. She watched the glow form in Syn's hands and sink into him, getting so bright it was almost blinding. Just like when she had healed Charlie Stark. Loki put his hand on the small of Syn's back, and added a faint green glow.

She held her breath, watching the wounds in his stomach for any change. The glow flared, then Syn wobbled and almost fell, but Loki wrapped an arm around her waist. He whispered something to her, but she shook her head and hung on a few more heartbeats before the glow faded out.

Clint's abdomen was bruised and one of the bullet holes was still there, though it looked days old instead of hours. Banner moved from Coulson to Clint, checking vitals. "Pulse is steady," he said, just as Clint took a breath.

Loki leaned over, grabbed Nat's arm and tugged so she'd get out of the chair and he could put Syn in it. Syn made a noise of protest, but Nat didn't mind moving. 

"Liver, stomach, kidney, small intestine and spleen," Syn said, ticking them off on her fingers. She sounded a little giddy, like she was drunk or severely sleep deprived. "All in working order. None of you have given me a reasonable excuse for the existence of the spleen, but I fixed it nonetheless. All the internal bleeding is patched up." Nat realized she was trying to update Banner. "The muscles in the abdomen are still torn up. I can fix it later. Don't let him do any sit ups," she added to Nat, very seriously.

"Dear heart, I think it's time you rest," Loki sounded more amused then concerned, so Nat figured this was her normal reaction to straining her powers.

"I can take it from here," Banner confirmed, inspecting the skin wounds left behind. He looked up and smiled. “But that was miraculous.” Loki nodded, gave Nat a little bow, then took his wife's arm and they both disappeared in a flash of green.

“Don’t imagine you have any special skin healing potion to go with your wonderful anti-bug lotion,” Coulson asked. Nat had lent him her bottle back in Africa.

“I have no magic potions, sadly,” Banner replied. “I mean, I do have the, you know. . .” He gestured at himself. “I’ve thought about it, sometimes. Giving it to a dying man. Anything is better than death, right?”

Nat looked up. “Only people who have never been tortured think that.”

“I can’t say I disagree.” He folded his hands. “Blood needs some time to get circulating. He won't be waking up soon," he warned. "I may not be an expert on magical healing, but his body has still been through a lot of trauma. Consciousness is not going to be a priority. I’m going to send a nurse in to clean and bandage the wounds, and go look in on some of the others. Tony’s arm’s broken, I want to make sure it was set right.”

He waited for her to nod in acknowledgement, and then was gone. 

A different nurse entered a few minutes, with a basin of warm water and a towel to clean him off. Nat reached for it, and the nurse pulled back, eyeing her _also_ torn and bloody clothing. "Who are you?" she asked disdainfully.

Before Nat could even open her mouth, Coulson said, "The last person on earth you want to fuck with right now. Leave the basin." Up until that very moment, she'd have bet her life's savings Coulson wouldn't say the word 'fuck' out loud if he had a gun to his head.

The nurse seemed to know it, too. She handed Nat the basin and towel and left without a word. Nat put them down on the vacated chair and got to work cleaning Clint's chest and stomach, then his face and arms. The water was rusty red when she was done, but he looked healthy and alive for the first time in what felt like days. She took a moment to lean over and kiss his forehead before looking at Coulson. "You all right?"

He straightened the cuff on his other arm, the one with the sleeve not rolled up. _Only_ Coulson could come out of a day like today with his starched cuffs and collar intact. "There are situations where a lack of decorum is, in fact, warranted."

She smiled a little. "It certainly got your point across." She put the basin on the floor and sat back in her chair, exhaustion making every inch of her body hurt. Syn had fixed only her broken bones and injured organs, not any of her very many cuts and bruises.

"You want to go clean off and change?" Coulson asked her. 

She looked back at Clint, stroking his hair out of his face. "I should. . ."

"I will stay here," Coulson said. "I am literally tied to him."

"If he does wake up you'll send someone for me?" she asked. "No matter what?"

"You have my word," he told her.

She bent and gave Clint one last kiss on the head before forcing herself to let him go. She went out into the hallway and down in, thinking she just needed some spare clothes and a sponge bath. She didn't want to go back to the hotel. It was too far, assuming it was even still standing. 

At the end of the hall was a room filled with chairs—a waiting room of some sort. Thor, Rogers and Stark were sitting in there. Stark had changed, into what looked like either pajamas or a prison inmate's uniform, and had his arm in a sling. All three of them stood when she entered. 

She rubbed a hand over her face and tried to gather her thoughts. "He's—Clint will be all right. Syn fixed the worst of it and Coulson is giving him blood as we speak. She had to sleep but she promised me she'd fix the rest of it tomorrow. She can probably help you then, too," she added with a gesture at Stark's arm.

"It's fine," he said. "There's a water closet over there. No bath, but it does have hot water, towels, and these delightful outfits."

"Thanks." She stepped to the door he'd indicated and went in, shutting it behind her. She stripped out of her ruined clothes, leaving them in a pile, then used hot water and towels to mop herself off, just as she had with Clint. She tugged on the ugly, scratchy outfit and ran wet fingers through her hair, trying to get the worst of the grit and blood out of it.

When she was done she scanned the cabinet for pins, or anything to tie it back with, but found nothing. It was probably just as well. Without Clint she'd never be able to tame it anyway.  
 And with that thought she burst into tears. 

She leaned against the wall, and eventually sat on the floor. No one was watching her so she stopped fighting it. She cried out of fear, out of grief. Like she hadn't cried since she was a little girl. She was starting to think she was done, when there was a light tap on the door and Stark poked his head around the door. She waved him off, but he ignored her to crouch next the her and wrap his good arm around her. 

She could admit that crying into his shoulder was a little more comforting then doing it into her own hands.

"You'll feel better after the crying is over," he said. "So Pepper tells me."

Nat nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's been a very long day," she managed, voice hoarse.

“I know.” He opened his hand, dangling a small strip of leather between two fingers. "Thor says this is for your hair."

She made an odd, hiccuping noise that was half laugh and half sob. "Thanks," she said, taking it from him and tying her hair back as best she could. She heard herself say, "Clint usually helps with my hair," and shook her head. He was going to kill her when he woke up. That thought made her smile, really smile, for the first time since the building had come down.

"Every morning, I tighten and tie the laces on Pepper's corset," he said. "She says no one else does it right. I got to thinking how they could be better made, especially to accommodate the babies and the nursing. So now I have a bit of a ladies undergarment workshop in my basement. I must have made twenty or thirty of them by now."

The image of Tony Stark, inventor of airships, mechanical armor, and submarines making corsets in his basement made her actually laugh. And just a few minutes ago, she would have sworn nothing would ever be funny again.. "She's lucky to have you."

"I wanted to offer to make you one—something more suited toward fighting, perhaps? Pepper was fairly convinced Barton would kill me if I asked." 

She cleared her throat. It was nice to not have to deny it anymore. "If you phrase it as wanting to make me battle wear and not 'hey, can I see Natasha's breasts?' I think he'll understand."

"I'll keep that in mind." He stood and extended his hand down to help her up. "Don't tell anyone about the corsets."

"Don't tell anyone about the hair," she replied, letting him pull her to her feet.

When she got back to Clint's room, he was just as she'd left—still, pale, breathing slowly. Gauze had been wrapped around his middle. Coulson was still in his chair, reading a book, red tube snaked between them.

She sank into the empty chair. "How much of that can you give?"

He shrugged. "I'll stop when I feel lightheaded, but he needs it." He looked up at her. She knew her eyes were red, her skin blotchy. "How are you doing?"

"Better," she told him, surprised at the truth of it. Apparently Pepper Stark knew a thing or two about crying. "Wrung out, exhausted and still a bit scared but overall, better."

"I was wrong about you two," he said. "And I'm sorry."

That surprised her. "If it wasn't for Syn we'd both be dead. I don't think you were that wrong."

"That he got shot trying to help you doesn't make it your fault. That is absolutely not what I was talking about when I said you'd get each other killed. It's like the opposite."

She looked at Clint's face. He looked like he was sleeping, which settled a little of the fear. "What did you mean?"

"I thought it was just lust. Which, especially when poorly ignored or unacknowledged, can be highly distracting. Hence, get it out of your system. But then I started watching, and realized you were in love with each other."

"I'm starting to realize we were the last to know about that."

"Nobody watches your back like a person who'd take a bullet for you. Any distraction is more than made up for by that. Love does far more good than harm, Natasha. You shouldn't be afraid of it." Coulson inclined his head. "The very last thing he did was look after you."

"Not the last." She brushed her fingers over the gauze on his abdomen. "I hope not the last. I can't do this without him."

"You won't have to," he replied. "This is my superpower. Nine lives, now. I'm like a . . .reverse cat."

Nat laughed again. "When you hit ten you should get a medal." 

He looked up at her. "First time it's been a friend." 

She looked at the red tube going between them, then stood and walked around the bed to hug him. "Thank you."

He stiffened, as clearly people hugged him about as often as they did Nat, but then he relaxed and hugged her back. She didn't let it go on too long, straightening and leaning on the bed. "You're looking a little pale, you want me to get Banner to unhook you?"

It was a moment before he nodded. "I think so."

She patted his leg and walked out to the hall, heading in the opposite direction of the waiting room. She found Banner in a lab, staring blankly at some papers in front of him. "I think Coulson's tapped," she said softly, trying not to startle him. 

He straightened, and looked at his watch. "Ah, shit. I should have unhooked him twenty minutes ago. Can you flag down one of the nurses and procure some juice?"

"On it." She continued down the hall to the nurse's station as Banner's foot steps headed back to the room.

In the end, they had to get Rogers to come help Coulson into the patient room next door so they could monitor him. Sounded like a few steaks and lots of juice would get him back to normal, but Banner appeared to be in a take-no-chances kind of mood. 

Rogers appeared later with a folding army cot that he and Stark took an embarrassingly long time to set up for her in Clint's room. Stark reminded them he was one-armed several times. Then the hallway grew quiet and it was just her and a still sleeping Clint.

* * *

To be continued in our next installment: _Mystery Sandwiches, Aubergine Socks, and Promises Kept_


	25. Mystery Sandwiches, Aubergine Socks, and Promises Kept

She sat there on the edge of the bed for a while, not sure what to do with herself. She knew if she lay down on that cot she was going to crash, and was afraid she'd miss something. That he'd need her and she wouldn't be there.

Banner came by again an hour or so later, holding a paper bag. He checked Clint's pulse and handed her the bag. "I brought you a sandwich. You should eat something, I don't think you have. I'm going to take a nap in the room on the other side of Coulson, but come yell if you need anything." He paused. "Sleep would do you good, too."

She pulled the sandwich out of the bag and took a bite without caring what kind it was. "I don't want to miss him waking up," she said around a mouthful of food.

"It could be a while. Maybe a long while. Maybe. . ." He shook his head. "I don't know what to expect when there is magic involved."

"I know," she said softly. "But I'm going to try to wait a little longer. Just in case."

"All right," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I will. Thank you, Bruce," she said softly. He ducked his head, and then he was gone. She took her sandwich and sat at the foot of the bed. "This sandwich is gross," she told Clint. Because. . .why not? She'd had a terrible day and she wanted to talk to her best friend. "I don't even think I can identify what meat it is."

He, of course, didn't answer her.

"Well, after everything that's happened I guess a little food poisoning won't be the end of me." She finished the sandwich and down the half cup of juice Coulson had left behind. She watched Clint breathe a moment. "All right. I'm going to give in and sleep. Be sure to make a lot of noise if you wake up."

He continued breathing. For a moment she wanted to scream at him, as if she made enough noise she might wake him up. But it didn't work like that. She had to have faith. Somehow. So she took the leather tie out of her hair, stretched out on her cot and let exhaustion claim her.

Her dreams were jumbled, and terrifying. Bullets and explosions. The infirmary collapsing around her, trying to dig Clint out of the rubble. People yelling at her. Dark, cold silence. Giant metal machines and monsters coming to tear her apart.

When she finally woke it was still quiet in the infirmary, though she suspected it was around dawn. A life spent traveling generally gave one a decent inner clock. She sat with a groan, stiff from the cot. After taking a moment to stretch she stood to check on Clint.

She touched him, and got a very grumpy sounding groan in response. She jumped a little. "Clint?"

He didn't open his eyes, but he did mumble something she couldn’t understand. He was going to need to teach her a bit of that language someday. Then he tried again. "Thought hell would be hotter."

She put a hand on his chest, right over his heart. "I'm afraid you're alive, _moi pitchka_. Don't try to get up."

For a moment he was still, but she could see the sweat beading on his forehead. So she could tell he was awake, and clearly in pain. She should get someone, someone who would have morphine. But then he opened his eyes, and managed to smile at her. "You're here," he whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I am. And so are you."

He looked her over, like he was checking her for injuries. When he looked back at her face there were tears in his eyes, too. "You. . ." he swallowed, "Are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Ah, Clint." She felt the fear she'd been carrying slowly ebb a bit. Awake was good. Awake and talking coherently was even better. She stroked his hair off his face and bent to kiss him gently. 

He didn't seem to have much energy to kiss her back, but on the blankets his hand moved to touch hers. "She fix you?" he asked, his eyes closed again.

She wove her fingers with his. "Yeah. I'm just fine. She fixed you up as best she could but your muscles are still a little torn up. She needed to rest before she could finish."

"I'm. . . sorry." He opened his eyes. "I needed you to be okay. I couldn't. . ." He closed his eyes and sighed, not finishing the sentence. But she didn't need him to.

"I know," she said softly. "I love you, too."

He squeezed her hand, and she could see him drifting back to sleep. "Don't leave." 

"I won't. I'll be right here. Promise." He was still again, breathing deeply. She should go see if Syn was awake. Find Banner and get him some morphine. But she could sit here first, just a little longer.

*

Clint was aware he slept a long time. There was a moment in the morning where he remembered the gold glow, then pain, followed by bliss as someone stuck a needle in his arm. He woke once, later, and Nat fed him some broth and a few bites of toast. Another time he woke up, but not enough to open his eyes. He could feel her holding his hand and hear her talking quietly with someone else. The sound of her voice made him feel safe, so he drifted back to sleep.

When he finally woke up properly he found her sitting in a chair by his bed, her feet propped up next to him. She was knitting with four slender needles and glaring at it like she wanted to set it on fire.

He smiled. "Are you making me new socks?"

She glanced up at him and the scowl softened a bit. "Yes."

"Is that yarn purple?"

"I was told it was aubergine. That's the last time I send Coulson for yarn."

He stared at her. "Coulson is colorblind."

"Yes. I know that now," she said through her teeth. 

“I like purple,” he replied, hoping to make her feel better. And she’d gotten much better at knitting. Unlike the yellow socks, these would at least fit.

She finished her stitch or row or whatever she was doing and put it down to look at him. "How do you feel?"

He considered, then answered honestly. "Like we sailed through a hurricane."

That made her smile a little. "I asked Syn, but she didn't know how to get rid of the sea sickness." She patted his stomach through the sheets. "You are something like twenty percent new material now, though."

He looked down, almost involuntarily. If he thought about it, he could still feel the gunshots. Like an echo. "I was so sure I was dying."

She curled her fingers around his hand and shifted to sit on the bed next to him. "Syn had Loki freeze you so you'd stop bleeding. It's the only thing that saved you." He liked that she didn't try to placate him. He would always be able to count on her for honesty.

"What about. . .Syn said she can’t make blood, and I know I was losing more than I could spare."

"Apparently, Coulson's superpower is that he can give blood to other people and it doesn't make them sick. You are his ninth success. Syn says you're still a bit low and will take a while to gain your strength back. But without Coulson there wouldn't have been enough left in you to make it this far." She squeezed his hand. "I should flag someone down to get you food. You need to eat."

"It's all right. I'm not hungry." He tugged on her hand. "Will you lay down with me?" She frowned a little, but nodded and shifted, settling along his side, head on his shoulder. He signed in contentment, and rubbed her back. "I take it we won?"

"Yes. Loki was able to close the portal. Once he did the machines had no guidance and shut down. Thor sent the stone home with his warriors and is helping clean up and hiding from his father. Loki thinks this is hilarious."

"I guess it's finally over." He turned his head to nuzzle her hair.

She sighed, snuggling closer. "I've been trying to figure out a way to get back to the states without a boat. Nothing appeals."

"You want to go back to the states?" Obviously she did, of course. His brain was a little fuzzy. Maybe they'd given him morphine.

"Well. I was promised a house in San Francisco and a pile of gold. Fury is giving us all some well deserved holiday time."

He chuckled, and was grateful it didn't hurt. "You're going to have to smother me with a pillow, then. That was only yours if I was dead."

She shifted so she could look at his face. "Well. I suppose your continued existence is worth a pile of gold."

"I am very glad you think so."

"I was scared," she said softly. "Of losing you when we'd just started figuring this out."

Up until right that moment, he hadn’t been sure if they were going to talk about that, or if they’d panic and back away again. "I've been afraid of losing you for a long time, but that didn't make me ready for it."

She lifted a hand and stroked his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. "I've done a lot of thinking while you've been sleeping. This is really, _really_ new territory for me. But I think I'd like to go to San Francisco. Live with you a while. Have some uncomfortable conversations. About us and the future. Maybe about inflicting a little redheaded archer on the world."

Of all the things he'd expected her to say, it wasn't that. "I love you more than anything in the world," he told her. "You are my closest friend and my only family. I'd love to make this. . .real."

Her fingers continued to pet his hair. "I feel like I should warn you how very, very bad I'm going to be at this. But you know me better then anyone so I'm sure you have a good idea." She smiled almost shyly. "Just remember I love you. And I am trying."

He remembered way her voice sounded when she'd begged him to hold on, to stay with her. He'd probably remember that all his days. "All I need is to know you're mine. We'll figure out the rest."

Her eyes were shiny with tears, but she was still smiling. "I'm yours. Never been anyone else's."

He tugged her down so he could kiss her, and then got her to settle against his chest. "Good," he said. "I don't want to sleep apart anymore."

There was a pause. "Well, now that you're awake maybe we can get you upgraded to a real bed."

"And then maybe we can go home?"

"Soon as they give you the okay."

He stroked his hands over her hair, her back, her arms, enjoying her warm weight against him. She really was his. "I have to tell you. . .I don't think I've ever felt better in my life."

She sighed softly. "Good." She kissed his shoulder. "We're just getting started."

* * *

To be concluded in our exciting epilogue: _The Earth Shook, The Sky Burned, and Nat Got a Telegram_


	26. Epilogue - The Earth Shook, The Sky Burned, and Nat Got a Telegram

_San Francisco, California - April, 1906_

The bed shook violently, waking Loki out of what had been a nondescript dream. He opened his eyes and realized the entire room and house were shaking. "I disapprove of the seismic instability of this planet."

A hunk of plaster came down from the ceiling, and Syn threw out an energy shield to block it. Earthquakes were annoyingly normal in California, but this one seemed to go on forever—long enough to upend their wardrobe. Long enough it stopped being funny.

When it finally stopped neither of them moved, all but holding their breath. Finally, Syn used her magic to ease the plaster hunk down to the floor. "That was. . . significant," she said.

"I noticed." He climbed out of bed, stepping over the shattered vanity mirror that was now on the floor. It was still dark out, so he couldn’t see much out the window, other than the houses across the street were damaged. He could see the orange glow of a fire growing in the parlor of the house directly opposite. He set some ice over to put it out, and turned back to Syn. "So? Time to move somewhere else?"

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyeing the destroyed wardrobe with dismay. "Perhaps. Though maybe this means there won't be another one soon." She looked up suddenly. "We should go check on the Bartons."

He winced. "I don't know how that house wouldn't have just slid off that hill." Clint and Natasha lived in a house up near the top of Telegraph Hill. Amazing view, but it was the sort of location that would only be chosen by the type of person who thought climbing to the top of an airship in flight sounded like fun. He couldn't imagine how stable it would be in an earthquake.

"All the more reason to go check." She stood, dressing with a shimmer of gold magic. Even with boots on she walked carefully through the glass and wood on the floor. "Are you coming or am I walking?"

Arguing with her would be pointless, as usual. He dressed with a thought and reached for her arm, taking them both to the sidewalk in front of the Barton's home.

Which, as it turned out, looked a hell of a lot better than his house. The most he could see was a turned over flower pot, and a broken front window. And the streetlights were out. "Maybe they slept through it," he commented. 

The front door opened, and Barton came out onto the porch with a kerosene lantern and gun. "Hey," he called. "You both okay?"

"Yes," Syn called back.

"Though our furniture has seen better days," Loki added, putting a hand on Syn's back to guide her up the steps. "She was concerned about you."

"He was ready to flee the city."

"In my defense, I assumed your house had killed you," he replied. Barton rolled his eyes. Ten years ago, he and Syn had come to San Francisco so she could deliver the Bartons’ first baby, and loved it so much they never left. Now they were, well, friends. Which was one of those things Loki had resigned himself to losing in his exile. He would have actually been sad if they were dead.

A small, red-haired shape flew at them once they reached the hallway. He just ducked as the girl threw herself Syn. His wife gave a little grunt at the impact before wrapping her arms around Bartons’ daughter. "Hello Anja, how did you like the earthquake?"

"It was fun!" she said brightly. "Gregory didn't think so. He's crying." This with an expressive eye roll.

"Well, he's young, darling. He's not as brave as you, yet."

The house started to shake again, and Anja shrieked in surprise. Loki braced a hand on the wall and looked warily at the ceiling, but the aftershock didn't last long. 

Natasha came into the hallway, holding her now loudly-crying little boy. Human children grew very quickly. "The water is out, too." She looked at over at he and Syn. "How bad is it out there?"

"Our ceiling caved in," he said. "One house across the street the front fell off, and another was on fire. I put it out," he felt compelled to add.

"Other parts of the city will be even worse," Clint said. "People will start being stupid."

"Not a whole lot we can do until the sun comes up," Nat said.

Anja bounced on her toes and tugged on Syn's skirt. "Can we play poker?"

The women seemed to think a card game was a fine way to settle everyone down, so soon they were sitting in the living room with a deck out. Syn let Anja win the first round. Gregory hid in his mother's lap and sucked his thumb. Loki felt bad for the little thing. If he were that small, he would certainly find this all too much to bear. So he conjured illusions of small, cute animals for the boy. The rabbit seemed to work the best, finally earning him a smile.

There were a few more light aftershocks, but nothing that increased the damage. Eventually Gregory fell asleep draped across Natasha's legs. Anja seemed far too wound up to go back to sleep. She claimed to want to go exploring when the sun came up.

Barton had wandered off somewhere, and when he came back, he caught Loki's eye and inclined his head, indicating he should get up and follow. He glanced at Syn, and then got up to do so. 

The top floor of the house had a cupola with an admittedly amazing view. It was why they lived up on a hill so steep even the cable car had to zigzag on its way up. It was near dawn, and once they were up there, you could see a great deal of the city. There was widespread rubble—and what looked like at least half a dozen separate fires.

Loki crossed his arms, surveying the wreckage. "That is far worse then I expected," he admitted finally.

"Nature can do as much damage as alien machines, and twice a fast."

There were a lot of injured people out there. Syn was going to want to fix all of them. And he had absolutely not intention of letting her over-exert herself. _Particularly_ not now. "We need to organize our approach."

Barton looked at him. "I thought you were fleeing."

He waved a hand. People took him so literally. "I like this city. I have no intention of seeing it destroyed by something so petty as an earthquake. That's plebeian." He counted the fires. "I'd need to be standing next to them, assuming they aren't too large. It would be like killing a colony of ants with a dessert spoon."

"What we really need is someone who can make it rain."

Loki sighed. "I knew you were going to say that."

*

"You want me to go _where_?"

Loki put a placating hand on his wife's arm. She'd know he was telling the truth. "Heimdall can't open the Bifrost to me. But you, apparently, technically, haven't been officially exiled. I just need you to go up there, get Thor, and send him back down, and hopefully not get arrested." Though it wouldn't be the worst thing if she got arrested. He'd deal with that later. She would at least be safe.

She crossed her arms. "Your father isn't any fonder of me than he is of you."

"But Mother and Thor _adore_ you."

Her eyes narrowed. "What will you be doing while I'm gone?"

Always so suspicious. It was almost as if she knew him extremely well. "There will be people trapped in buildings. I can get them out without disturbing the wreckage. And I can keep the fires from getting out of control until Thor and his hammer arrive."

She blew out a breath. "Fine. But when I get back I'm helping whether you like it or not."

"I promise, dear heart." He gave her a kiss, and then they went outside. "Heimdall?" he asked the sky.

The Bifrost set the house's front fence on fire, and he put it out. They really ought to look into that. Barton came out and stood next to him. "Will you take my children to the Stark’s in New York?"

After that, then, he would go unearth things.

*

Anja clearly thought the teleporting was the most wonderful thing she'd experienced in her life. Gregory vomited on him. That in and of itself was bad enough, but in his haste Loki slightly misremembered the layout of the Stark mansion, and ended up not in the front hall, but the master bedroom. Transporting was more of an art than a science, really. . .

Stark looked more amused then angry, at least, when he hustled them out into the hall. Loki was fairly sure Mrs. Stark would never look him in the eye again.

"What the hell?" Stark asked in the calmest voice possible.

"Why are you still in bed at ten in the morning?"

"Loki."

He sighed. The quicker he got this over with the quicker he could get into non-vomit drenched clothes. "There was an earthquake. San Francisco is currently on fire. Barton asked I bring the children here while we dealt with it."

"Oh." He processed a moment. "Right." He leaned over the railing and yelled for his butler. When he came back he smiled at both of the children. Anja gave him an effusive hug and Gregory stared at him suspiciously. "Your Aunt Pepper will be out in just a minute, and she'll get you cleaned up." He looked back at Loki. "Jarvis will get you some clothes. I'll go get the suit." He started down the hall, and then turned to walk backwards. "How many people can you carry at once?"

He considered. "The most I've done is seven but theoretically as many I wanted. As long as they were touching each other."

"Excellent. I'll make some calls."

*

Loki had only been to Boston once, so the best he could do was on the green of Boston Common. It made quite a spectacle in the middle of a Tuesday morning. 

He was particularly amused Rogers had brought his shield. "It's an earthquake, not a battle."

"Alway be prepared," he replied mildly. "Why do you smell like vomit?"

"The Littlest Barton did not enjoy his cross country trip. Are we ready to go?"

"Well, we can't possibly be more obvious than we already are, so just do it," Rogers replied. That probably wasn't entirely true. Banner was just standing there quietly, when he could be giant and full of rage. Certainly, if Loki had the capacity to become a hulk, right now seemed like a grand time. He and Rogers both looked over at Stark—who had wandered away to sign autographs. "For God's sake," Rogers muttered.

"You're about to be left behind," Loki yelled.

He scrawled something on a piece of paper and darted back. "You're no fun. Either of you."

"My city is on fire," Loki told him, grabbing his arm and sending all four of them back in front of the Barton house.

The sun was all the way up, revealing the devastation even from the yard. At the bottom of the hill, he could see the cable car tracks had twisted, and there was an overturned car down there laying over a smashed carriage and likely several horses and perhaps even some people. 

"What are you all doing here?" Nat called, coming down the flight of steps from the porch.

Rogers put out an arm to hug her. "Thought we'd come to help out. Seemed like the more the better."

"My wife isn't back yet?" Loki asked.

Nat shook her head. "Not yet. Clint is inside with a map trying—"

She cut off as the Bifrost slammed into the pavement a few feet from him. Thor emerged from the dust cloud and scooped him into a hug. "Brother! Congratulations!"

Loki gave his wife a baleful look. "You _told_ him?"

Syn held up her hands. "Not me. Heimdall apparently really does see all."

"Congratulations," Stark said. "Why am I congratulating you?"

"I'm pregnant," Syn said.

"We must drink and celebrate," Thor said, finally releasing Loki.

"The city is on _fire_ ," he said for what had to be the tenth time. He looked over to see Nat hugging Syn quite fiercely. She'd debated telling her, as they were quite close. But superstition got the better of her. And he hadn't wanted people to fuss. He knew they'd fuss.

For example, Rogers was now slapping him on the back in an extremely undignified manner. "Yes. Yes. We're both thrilled, she's due around New Year's, I'm happy to share drinks with you all after the heroics are done."

"Hey!" Barton bellowed from somewhere, and when Loki looked up he was standing on the roof. "Are we making rain or not?" 

"Oh. Right." Thor began to twirl his hammer and dark, black clouds began to form over the city. "You might want to get inside," he called over the wind.

"Don't overdo it," Nat said. "Just put the fires out, don't drown the survivors." 

Thor nodded and the sky opened with a crack of thunder. The rest of them hurried inside to wait out the downpour. "I have to admit, that is a handy trick," Syn said, watching out the window. She ignored the devastating glare Loki sent her way.

"The city is now not on fire," Stark proclaimed. "Now what?"

"Now we go be heroes," Rogers said.

*

They set up a base in Golden Gate Park, leaving Syn and Banner there to run a triage center and Nat to coordinate with the city police and fire, and the military out of the Presidio. Then Loki and the others went to the most destroyed parts of town and began digging out survivors.

It was a long, strange day. Fires kept cropping up, so it rained intermittently all day. People were stupid, and were cooking, and setting their own houses on fire. The commander of the local military was outraged to find some of them digging out survivors in the charred and devastated Chinatown—when there might be white people somewhere needing their help.

"I don't understand why _some_ features having a different appearance is acceptable to humans, and others are not," Thor complained. "And it seems completely random."

Loki sighed, because he was tired, and he was holding up an unstable wall so three people inside could look for their dog. Heavy lifting was not his forte. "This realm is primitive. That's why I got sent here." 

"It's not completely hopeless. They just have a few . . . inconsistencies."

Stark landed next to them with a clank. "Are you two doing the 'humanity is so backwards' conversation again?"

"You've become more annoying since you put the flying thing on your suit," Loki complained. He peered into the house. "I will buy you another dog!" he yelled.

Just then the man and woman came dashing out, carrying a small squirming thing that clearly had two legs and two arms. So, a baby. His Chinese wasn't that bad, dammit. "People shouldn't mumble," he muttered, because he could feel Thor looking at him, and practically vibrating in his attempt not to laugh.

"If you're done," Stark said. "We need rain again."

On it went. They stopped long enough to eat. The army commander who didn't like the Chinese got ahold of Banner and managed to piss him off so much he hulked out—and not in a good way. Nat managed to talk to him and get him pointed at some severely damaged buildings that would need demolishment anyway until he was calm enough to do some heavy lifting before going back to being a doctor. Barton remained as fearless as ever, climbing up rickety buildings to get people off upper floors.

Loki went back to the park with embarrassing frequency, just to check on Syn. At least, until she threatened to beat him with a cast iron skillet if he came back again. She had acquired quite an army out there of women with skillets. Why they all felt skillets were _the_ thing to save in an emergency he would never know.

It was after dark when they cleared the last neighborhood. Stark and Thor did one last aerial sweep, then Loki transported all of them, and the dozen refugees they'd uncovered to the slowly growing tent city in the park. He and Rogers brought the three injured people to where Banner was running triage. "This is the last of them," Rogers said. "Now it's just going to be demolition and recovery."

"I think we should let the army handle that." He pointed to a spot near a pair of trees where he could see Barton building a campfire. He could also see, hilariously, that Nat had a cast iron skillet. "I need to eat something or we're all going to have to sleep in the park." He pulled out the small bottle from his clothing. He'd hopped back over to their house earlier. Daylight had revealed it to be completely off it's foundation. "I do also have this."

Rogers shook his head. "I can't get drunk."

"This, my friend, is Asgardian liquor."

The other man paused, then held out his hand. "You have my interest."

They went over to join the Bartons by the fire. Syn was still working in the medical tent. He would feed himself and then go pester her. She was pregnant, it was perfectly reasonable to fret a little. 

Stark took off the suit with some help from Thor, and they sat and passed the bottle around. He tolerated some joking while he ate his bacon. Nat sat next to him to try the Asgardian liquor. "You've been holding out on me."

"I was uncertain whether your fragile Midgardian systems could handle it," he told her, shoving another piece of bacon in his mouth.

"My Midgardian system is not fragile." She paused with it halfway to her mouth. "You didn't give Clint any, did you?"

"I am not an idiot," he said around his bacon.

A hand snaked over his shoulder to steal food from his plate. "Are you getting our friends drunk?" Syn asked.

"I am behaving like a gentleman," he told her, leaning back to give her a kiss. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Bruce has been making me eat. Well, when he wasn't green." She sat next to him on the grass. "How are you? You were bouncing all over the city today."

"There is plenty of delicious bacon."

"Biscuits, too," Nat added. "They're almost done."

Syn sighed. "Tony's head is bleeding. I'll be right back."

"Dear heart, you don't have to. . ." he started, but she was already walking over there. He watched her like a hawk.

"Just wait until the baby's born," Nat said from beside him. "That's a hundred times worse."

"Me fretting and her blithely ignoring me is hardly new."

"No. I mean the baby itself." He turned, ready with a quip, but she was looking back at him with deadly seriousness. "If you thought she was scary, your child will rip your guts out."

He glanced back at Syn again. "Yes. I suspected as much. I had never expected to have children. It will be an adjustment."

"That's an understatement." She handed him his bottle back. "It's worth it. It's hard. But worth it. It's also pretty normal to want to strangle them. As long as you, you know, don't. . .don't beat yourself up."

Loki took a long drink from the bottle. "I suppose if you and Barton haven't left them at a convent I have half a chance. My father is an asshole but my mother did a good job. I'll attempt to learn from her example."

"It helps," she said after a moment. "Raising children right. Seeing them have a good childhood. It can heal wounds that once looked permanent."

"That I had not considered. Second generation healing."

"Surprised the hell out of me." She stood up, apparently having reached her tolerance for talking about feelings. "I'm going to check on the biscuits."

"Bring me several," he said as she walked off. He took another drink for the bottle, wondering when his day was going to end.

Syn appeared at his side again, warm and familiar as she cuddled against him. He wrapped an arm around her to hold her close as she ate the last of his bacon. "You did good today," he told her.

She smiled and gave him an almost surprised look. "Thank you. So did you."

"Barton told me the city's waterworks were destroyed in the earthquake. Had you not gone and gotten Thor, the fire likely would have burned for days, and destroyed most of the city, I'd imagine."

"I think we saved a lot of lives today." She resettled her head on his shoulder. "We took good care of our city."

"Maybe I'll run for mayor."

She laughed softly and curled her arms around his. "I'm glad we were sent down here. I feel more at home here then I ever did in Asgard."

That made him smile. "Right now, so do I."

*

Loki liked San Francisco. Clearly. But not enough to spend months sleeping in a tent. Two days after the quake, he bought a beautiful spread of land—with a ruined mansion on it—near the top of Nob Hill. It's owner was panicking and heading back east, so it was practically theft. Though considering their old house had been acquired via outright theft, it wasn't that bad. He would build a mansion of his own, worthy of his family. Stark was already very interested in figuring out how to build something that would withstand an earthquake.

In the mean time, however, they had returned to New York. The Bartons collected their children and he allowed his brother to throw him a small celebration in honor of the pending child.

Shield and the British government had made quite an effort to conceal the more sensational—and supernatural—aspects of their involvement in the Battle of London. There was no such intervention in this case. News reports and an unending supply of pictures reached the papers very quickly. Fury sent them an avalanche of telegrams, even threatening to get on a ship.

They were well and truly famous now. _Band of Heroes Save San Francisco_

It took three days before a different telegram arrived. This one came to Natasha, and it prompted her ask everyone to gather in the parlor that evening with one of her more serious faces. Syn wouldn't let him steal the telegram in advance.

Nat stood at the center of the room, watching them all. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Honey."

She tossed him a grin and a shrug. Then she held up the telegram in question. "I know you're all very curious about this. It's addressed to me, but it involves all of you and I want your opinions before I respond. It's from the president."

"Ooh, are we getting medals?" Stark asked.

"Probably, but that isn't what this is about. President Roosevelt wants to start a branch of Shield for the United States. Made up of. . . us." 

There was a moment of silence. Then Rogers said, "Roosevelt is trying to poach us?"

"Essentially, yes. Most of us are US citizens, or at least spend most of our time here. I would hope to be on good terms with the original Shield. But we'd be our own entity."

"No offense," Stark said. "And please don't kill me. But why is the telegram addressed to you? Are you in charge? I mean, you are a. . ." he made an hourglass shape with his hands.

He had really meant to keep the thought inside, and just enjoy watching one or the other Barton punch Stark, but it came out of his mouth anyway. "Why is this planet _so_ backward?"

They all turned to look at him, then. He crossed his arms, debating whether to say anymore. Syn's absolutely adoring expression convinced him to go on. The things that woman could get him to do. "Natasha was the one at the base liaising with the army and other rescue teams. She's the one who organized us and told us where to go next. Everyone here has a variety of skills. Strategy is one of hers. The fact her reproductive organs are on the inside does not diminish that. Evidently, your president can see that even if you cannot."

There was another pause. Then Natasha said quietly, "Thank you." He sniffed and made a dismissive gesture.

Stark held up his hands in surrender. "I smuggled my wife into Harvard dressed as a man. I'm not implying you can't handle it because you're a woman. You are in fact very smart. I just know how the world works and am surprised. They don't let women vote. He owns all your stuff." He hooked a thumb at Barton.

Who replied, "Stop digging and say you're in." He paused. "Also, technically I don't. We're not legally married. The names on the certificate are aliases."

"I wouldn't tell the president that. And yes, I'm in."

"Me too," Rogers said. "I still don't really like England."

Loki glanced at Syn, who just nodded and grinned. "We're in," he said. 

"My loyalties have always been with you, my comrades, and not England," Thor said. Then added. "Don't tell Jane that."

"Are you with us, Banner?" Rogers asked. "You are English."

He raised an eyebrow. "I am _Scottish_ , thank you." He shrugged. "Only person in the world The Other One seems to listen to is Natasha. Hell yes, I'm in."

Natasha was smiling in a way Loki had rarely seen. "I'll let Mr. Roosevelt know. And then I'll let Fury know."

"Oh, I'm going to miss Mr. Coulson," Syn said. "Do you think we can get him to defect?"

"Probably not. But I'm hoping once Fury gets over the tantrum he is sure to have he will agree to let me liaise with Coulson rather then him."

"Hey," Stark said after a moment. "Can we come up with a better name?"

* * *

The End

* * *

Fear not Gentle Readers! The Adventures of the Avengers Initiative will continue in the thrilling sequel: _The Great War_


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